


And They Mistook the Oar for a Shovel

by RainyDayz



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Billy likes to build useful stuff, Cooking, Domestic Pirates, Domestic!AU, F/F, F/M, Flint's house is Jack's library, Gardening, Jack and Flint have deep conversations about books, M/M, Multi, Pining, Sharing beds, Silver is intimidated by Anne, Silver likes bathing, a little bit of angst, but also happiness, cozy sleepovers, everybody likes cats, everything will be alright, happy pirates, happy!everyone, headcanons, it's impossible to write these people without some angst, lots of pining, lots of sleeping over, lots of walking around shirtless to make others uncomfortable, oblivious people, obvious people, these little pirates deserve to be happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-26 22:44:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6258730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyDayz/pseuds/RainyDayz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had been supposed to make a quiet life for himself in Miranda's old house on New Providence island. But with the entirety of Nassau after Vane's head, Silver growing tired of the sea, Anne and Jack following their friend like a pair of puppies and Billy simply trying to make sure everyone stayed alive, it was as if Flint had never left.</p><p> </p><p>(This story is based on the Domestic Pirates! post on Tumblr, originally posted by theheirsofdurin and ellelan. <3 I got permission to use the headcanons and I will tag people whose headcanons appear in the chapters!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It had been two months since Flint had last been at sea, even seen a glimpse of it. The ground had stopped swaying under his feet a week into living inland, and this morning marked the first one when he hadn’t awoken with a jolt, expecting to be needed on deck. The air was dry, and the wind only brought the faintest whiff of salty sea air with it as it rustled in the trees, making the shadows on the porch dance. The sky was pale blue, the heat of the day throwing a rippling veil over the ground in the horizon. It was blissfully silent; there was not a soul nearby, save for the large, dark brown horse lazily eating grass near the gate. 

Flint sat on the stairs leading to the porch, a book opened to its first page forgotten on his lap. He was leaning against the railing, its paint peeling and faded, his gaze following the unhurried way his horse moved around, as if sensing that Flint was not about to pick up the saddle and go anywhere. He could hear the faint buzzing of the bees in the vegetable garden, and the soft sound of leaves brushing against each other in the wind. The sun was scorching hot through his clothes, but he was used to it, and it didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the perfect, nearly ominous stillness of the day, and the lack of human-made noise; the fact that there was no one on Earth who needed him to do anything at all. 

At first the peace had been relatively comfortable. And at first it had felt like it was everything he could possibly want - freedom of danger, of judgement, of his own reputation. Knowing he would not be awoken by Billy insistently knocking at the door of his cabin, or Silver simply throwing it open and stomping inside uninvited, already halfway through explaining what it was he had believed required Flint’s opinion. Knowing it would not be him putting his men on the line of danger, not anymore, finally free of the responsibility of other lives. Free of the man he had hated with every fibre of his being, hated so much he had felt it all the way down to his core. Free of Captain Flint. Yet now, sitting on the stair and letting his eyes trail the narrow sand road leading to the gate, he was almost shocked to find himself missing it all. The danger, the pressure, the adrenaline. The sounds he had never been able to escape on Walrus. He missed the sound of waves hitting against the ship’s hull, the screech of seagulls when they were getting close to Nassau. He missed the creaking of the wood, and the soft thumps of iron against the floorboards, a sign that Silver was somewhere nearby. He missed the sound of men talking, laughing, even arguing; the ropes snapping against the masts in the wind. The unpredictability of the sea. But it was a life he didn’t want anymore. He was sure that time would make him miss it all less, like it had eventually allowed him to miss Thomas less, like it had slowly started to ease his missing of Miranda. He still grieved them both, but it was tolerable, something he could live with. 

Perhaps he had been simply meant to be alone, accompanied only by ghosts. Miranda’s memory was still strong around the house, in its surroundings, in the small garden overgrowing with weeds Flint had noticed he couldn’t separate from real flowers. When it was dark, he could hear the rustle of her light skirts as if she still walked in the house, sense her warm smile at the back of his head. Staring at the harpsichord from his seat beside the fire he could imagine her appearing, in her clean white nightgown, brown curls falling down to her back; the melancholy music she always played would fill the heavy silence, and Flint would listen, unable to shut it out.

It had been overwhelming at first; it had been a home, her home, a stark contrast against the luxury of the Hamilton’s house back in London, but still a home. Her presence had made it warm and inviting whenever Flint had been able to spend some time with her. It had been his escape, his other life, the one he had desperately missed when at sea, the one he had hoped to fall back on when the era of piracy eventually came to its bloody end. But after Charles Town, he hadn’t really been back. He had visited briefly, once with Charles Vane and Anne Bonny, but had never let himself feel anything, had deliberately looked away from all the little details that told so many stories to him. He had viewed the house as nothing but a building, useful for hiding in for short periods of time, located far away from other people, peaceful and nearly forgotten. Only after the war had he realised that it still stood there, waiting, and that he was the only one left to return. 

He had made the decision and dreaded it, seen it through for the sole reason of getting some closure, anything to make him sleep again. Arriving at the house at night, no candle light behind the windows to welcome him, the rooms silent and unused for months: he had nearly returned to the beach at once. Yet fighting against his own will he had dismounted his horse, not stopping for a moment before reaching the porch, determined to face the accusation the empty house threw at him. He had wedged the door open and lit the oil lamps in the kitchen, struck by the weight of everything he had lost in such a short period of time as the past settled its weight upon his shoulders, stronger than ever. He had cried, and raged, and screamed his pain into the darkness, only heard by the animals lurking in the night. He had contemplated burning the house down, momentarily falling into a terrifying state where he cared little if he would burn down with it. Dying didn’t seem to matter; his life wasn’t worth the deaths it had caused. But he had been unable to do it, knowing neither Thomas nor Miranda would ever have forgiven him for such weakness. Instead he had allowed himself to wander through the house, allowed the memories and the pain to finally wash over, and slowly, torturously, he had started to let go. He would never forget, never love the memories any less, never forgive the people responsible, but if there was a future for him, he would make sure it wasn’t filled with guilt and sadness. Not anymore. He had left everything behind; the sea, his ship, his men. Silver, Billy, everyone he had perhaps once considered a temporary family. He had nothing left to lose, nothing anyone could take away from him. And slowly, the weight had shifted. Miranda’s ghost had stopped taking her form, instead becoming a simple, pleasant feeling around the house. The nightmares had become less frequent, less frightening. A book left open on a side table was no more a painful memory, but a peaceful, familiar one. 

Yet still, he lacked something. 

At the gate, the whinnying of his horse drew Flint back to the present, and he squinted against the brightness, straightening on his seat. At first he could see nothing, but then a distant figure on the road caught his attention. The person was still too far for him to be able to tell who it was, although he had an inkling, from the way the approaching man seemed to be favouring his right leg. It felt eerily like Flint had summoned him with his thoughts, but nonetheless he got up, cursing as the forgotten book thumped to the dusty ground at his feet. He picked it up and placed it carefully on the railing, tilting his head as he waited for the man on the road to get within earshot. 

“Did you walk all the way here?” he asked in lieu of a greeting, trying not to look too amused as Silver threw the gate open, limping to the yard, breathless and annoyed. His black curls were glued against the skin of his neck from the effort of walking on sand with a peg leg, but he shot Flint a brilliant smile, all glimmering white teeth and shadowed eyes. 

“Not all the way. I got a ride in some priest’s carriage, but when I said I was looking for you, God seemed to call down on him urgently. He had to leave me right where we were. No sympathy for invalids.” He shook his head, catching his breath. It seemed he hadn’t prepared anything to say upon getting to the house, and Flint got the feeling he hadn’t been sure he would find Flint at all. “We got back to Nassau last night,” Silver started slowly, “And I thought I’d come check if you are still alive.”

“You could’ve sent someone.” Flint said, but only because he knew Silver expected it from him. “I’m sure the Captain of the ship is needed more at the beach.” 

“Well, then it’s good he is there, isn’t it?” Silver huffed, grimacing as he walked up to stand level with Flint. It was evident his leg still hurt, and Flint wondered briefly how damn long it took for such injury to heal completely. Although most of it must’ve been due to Silver’s bloody stubbornness to wear the boot, instead of using crutches and resting like Howell had suggested. “I voted Billy for captain. The men didn’t see why not, they’ve known him for a long time, and they always knew I wasn’t going to stay.” He looked at Flint from beneath his lashes, challenging, as if expecting for him to say his decision had been ridiculous and reckless.

“And you? What are you planning to do?” Flint asked instead, knowing the answer yet asking anyway, if only to make the other uncomfortable. He didn’t mind the company, but John Silver had surprised him on every turn for as long as they had known each other, and there was always going to be some level of uncertainty between them. Even now, Flint couldn’t be entirely sure about the man’s motives, or what he was going to do next. He could guess, but he had long since learned that guessing with Silver was not enough. A part of him wanted for Silver to stay, and a part of him wondered whether it would be a good idea, just the two of them, constantly so close to each other, far from everyone and everything. It could end badly. 

“Well, I sure as hell am not going to walk back to the beach, and with the shortage of priests in carriages…” Silver’s voice faded, and he cast his eyes down. He wasn’t sure whether Flint would allow him to stay - it had been Miranda’s home, and Silver knew it. And unlike most others, he also seemed to understand the value of the memories the house held for Flint. Even on the threat of being turned away and having to limp through the island for hours, he wasn’t going to intrude. 

Flint looked at the man in front of him, his gaze going unnoticed as Silver kept staring at the ground with interest. He was usually more cocky, more sure of himself, but he had been in Charles Town. He knew this was different, he knew the decision would be Flint’s alone, and he was disarmed against it. His lashes fanned against his cheeks as he blinked slowly, waiting, the wind ruffling his hair. He was shorter than Flint, and more lithe, and there was something strangely delicate about him, something enhanced by the peg leg and the small frown on his face, the shadows under his eyes like livid bruises. He was in a dire need of a bath and a good night’s sleep. 

“You have good timing,” Flint said finally, frowning to keep from smiling. “I was just going to start preparing dinner, but I miss a couple ingredients.” Silver looked up, surprise written all over his weary face, and nodded hastily, his hand shooting forward to grab the railing, as if he had waited for permission to make any contact with anything that had to do with Miranda. Flint’s words weren’t exactly a welcome, but they both knew they were as close to it as he would get.

“What do you need?” he asked, something glimmering in the bright blue of his eyes, something Flint couldn’t read. He seemed so genuinely relieved that Flint thought he must’ve expected to be sent back to where he had come from, as unceremoniously and quickly as possible. He felt guilty at the notion, but was quick to brush it aside. 

“Carrots.” he answered simply, unable to hold back the snort as Silver’s face fell. Truth be told, Flint had no use for carrots, and he in fact quite disliked them. But he wasn’t sure he could handle Silver’s presence in the house while he was cooking, the other man bound to be too big of a distraction.

“Beg pardon?” Silver frowned, looking around. “Where the hell am I going to get carrots from?” He squinted, as if expecting for a few of them to pop out from the ground right there for him to pick. 

“From the vegetable garden of course. Where else?” Flint made a vague gesture towards the horribly overgrown patch of land at the far side of the yard, shadowed by three large trees. Weeds had grown to cover most of the dirt, and Flint was going to eat them all before admitting he had no idea which of them were carrots, if any. He saw that Silver was struggling with the same problem. What they were looking at didn’t resemble a vegetable garden as much as it did a compost. 

“I see.” Silver said slowly, his tone defeated. “And how many carrots would you need?” he looked suspicious, probably having already caught up with Flint. It made Flint smile, something he concealed carefully as soon as the other man turned back towards him. 

“Five should be alright.” He said matter-of-factly, and Silver sighed, leaning his weight to the left and wincing quietly as he took a step towards the garden. 

“Five.” He repeated, and Flint watched as he made his way to the far corner of the yard. Feeling like he would soon have to compensate for whatever would happen next, Flint turned and went inside the house, starting to look for something edible. He was a bad eater himself, never eating regularly, sometimes forgetting, usually picking something up when the hunger became unbearable. But as far as he knew Silver wasn’t like that, and Flint had no desire to have him go hungry. He opened several cupboards before finding what he was looking for, a few pots and plates, and a knife that looked sharp enough for cutting ingredients. He set everything onto the table, rolling up his sleeves and carefully washing his hands. He didn’t have a lot of food in store, but he had some meat and bread, and some vegetables he had brought from Nassau, knowing it wouldn’t be likely he would be doing any gardening for some time. Through the open door he could hear a loud sigh and Silver’s faint cursing, and alone in the house he let himself smile, like he hadn’t in a very long time. It felt strange and unfamiliar, and he blamed the man currently at work outside; Silver’s sudden presence nearby had already brought a significant change to the atmosphere around the house. 

He prepared the meat absently, listening to the swearing and huffing through the doorway, wondering if any carrots had been found. His hands worked on their own, quickly picking up the familiar routines of cooking, something he rarely did just for himself. It seemed to be a skill not easily forgotten. As the smell of the food filled the room he wondered when had been the last time he had eaten a proper dinner, and if Miranda had ever failed to cook for herself. It was hard to think she would’ve. She had been fond of the routines she had grown up with back in London, even if the Hamiltons had had their dinners made by servants. Flint had often cooked for himself, even in London, but had rarely prepared food after becoming captain on Walrus. 

A muffled shout and the sound of leaves rustling when hit by something heavy reached the kitchen, and Flint was striding to the door before his mind even completely registered any of it. He tried to ignore the immediate surge of fear as he got to the porch and peered towards the garden, alarmed to find it empty - there was no sign of Silver. His coat had been discarded and hung from the fence, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Flint tried to reason with his own mind, looking around, descending the stairs to the yard and turning back to the garden just as Silver seemed to emerge from a thick bush of weeds - he looked furious. There were smudges of dirt on his face and arms, all the way up to his elbows, and a few stray leaves in his hair. 

Flint was beside him in a moment, hovering at a safe distance, surprised at the anger written all across the other man’s face. 

“It’s fucking stuck.” Silver grunted for an explanation, and it took Flint a moment to see what was; then he noticed that the end of Silver’s peg leg was buried deep into the ground, too soft under the combined weight of man and iron. “It’s been stuck for some time now, if you heard the cursing.” He looked accusing.

“I thought it was the carrots.” Flint offered weakly, unsure what was expected of him. 

“There are no carrots in your vegetable garden Flint! And if there are some elsewhere, I don’t want them. I want to be un-stuck before I too start growing weeds, so if you could help I’d appreciate it.” Silver glared up at him, eyes wide, and Flint stared back, astonished. Then he crouched down and started laughing.

Silver looked alarmed, and Flint would’ve been lying if he had claimed he wasn’t a little alarmed as well. He couldn’t remember the last time he had really laughed, and the muscles of his face hurt, his sides hurt, but it didn’t matter. He made a futile attempt at grabbing Silver’s leg, but laughing made his effort too weak, and instead he sat down onto the dirt, his hand resting on Silver’s knee, hot tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. It didn’t take long for Silver to laugh too, affected by the strangeness of the situation. Flint wondered briefly what people who knew them would think if they were to walk upon the scene. He knew it wouldn’t happen, but if it would, he wouldn’t care. He felt lighter, and Silver was warm and solid and the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. 

In the end, Flint had to get a small shovel to dig the peg leg out of the dirt, and Silver had to take the boot off to avoid injury. Flint helped him to the fence where he leaned against the wood, watching as Flint dug into the ground with fervour. The sun was setting in the horizon, the shadows stretching and the wind getting cooler, and neither mentioned it when Flint wrapped his arm around Silver’s waist to help him into the house, the boot too dirty to be used at the moment. He left it on the porch, deciding to clean it properly come morning, and helped Silver to a seat at the table. The food had grown cold waiting for them, but it didn’t matter, and Silver dug into his plate like he hadn’t seen a proper meal for weeks. Perhaps he hadn’t - Flint didn’t know where the crew of the Walrus had been after he had left them in Silver’s care. It didn’t even matter - they seemed to all be alive and well. 

The sounds Silver produced low in his throat to show how much he appreciated the food made Flint shift uncomfortably on his wooden chair. He couldn’t not hear them, and he wondered if Silver was aware of them; he had to be. He always was aware of everything. But either it was revenge for the carrots they had never gotten, or then he truly was having his first meal in a long time. 

“How the hell do you cook this well?” Silver asked when his plate was empty, looking nearly as clean as it had been in the cupboard. “It must’ve been torture to have me aboard the ship, poisoning you all one by one.”

“It was, I won’t lie.” Flint grunted, secretly pleased by the praise. “But a captain has little time to spare cutting onions in the galley, as I’m sure you noticed after I left. I had hopes you might learn, since I had to keep you on the ship, but I guess you never did.” 

Silver grinned. “How would you know? Making good food was never in my best interests on Walrus. How do you know that if it had been, I wouldn’t have been an excellent cook?” he tilted his head, a stray curl falling over his face. Flint wrestled down the urge to lean in and brush it behind his ear. They weren’t there yet, they might never be. For now, just the company was enough. 

“I don’t know. But if you are claiming you can cook, I need some proof that doesn’t kill me before I can even consider believing that.” He said, arching an eyebrow. 

“Your wish is my command, captain. Tomorrow, I’ll cook.” Silver winked at him, leaning back on his seat, covering a yawn with the palm of his hand. “And don’t worry, it’s not a plan to poison you. Unless you give me a bloody pig to roast. That was truly me being a bad cook - I had never done it before, and I don’t care to repeat it either.” 

“Well, there are no pigs around here.” Flint said absently, looking over Silver’s shoulder. He could see their reflections on the window; night had fallen, and it was dark outside. The world seemed to have closed in once more, like there would be nothing there if he opened the front door. Nothing but emptiness and silence, as if the world consisted only of the lonely house and the people inside it. On previous nights it had bothered him, even scared him a little, but now there was another reflection accompanying his. Two sets of plates, the sound of someone else breathing, moving, living. The candle light made Silver’s skin glow, brightened his eyes, made his curls look softer. They both felt relaxed, despite the tension crackling in the air between them. They were the only people in existence at that moment, and it was dangerous. Leaning across the table would be too easy, cupping Silver’s face and tilting his head up would be too simple, and if they sat there for much longer Flint was sure it would happen. And if not that, then something else they would both regret later. And he didn’t want to destroy whatever fragile bonds they had been able to build between themselves so far. 

“I’ll run the hot water, if you want to tidy up a little.” He said finally, breaking the silence. Silver arched his eyebrows, looking like he had been about to fall asleep, eyes heavy and half-lidded. 

“You reek.” Flint continued sternly, earning a huff and a smile. 

“Well, I had been thinking of installing a bath into the captain’s cabin, but it would’ve been tedious to try and keep the water from sloshing all over the place what with the ship constantly moving, so I gave up on that. Must be the reason you never installed one either. Besides, in a dire need, one can always take a quick dip over the side.” He smirked, and Flint sighed. 

“Indeed. Now, do you want a bath or not? Think carefully, I don’t want to have to save you from drowning if you’re too tired to look after yourself.” 

Silver hummed, frowning. “I think I’ll leave the bathing for tomorrow. I feel like an old man. I need a bed, and silence, and darkness. Just tell me where and I’ll go.” He yawned again, to emphasise his words. 

“The guest room is down the corridor and to the left. You’ll have the honour of sleeping on the bed once used by Eleanor Guthrie’s father.” Flint said, dismayed by the memory. He had never liked the man, and having to house him with Miranda, letting him see a glimpse of Flint’s life no one had had the right to see had been infuriating. 

“Well, mark me down as scared and horny.” Silver said tiredly. “I hope it won’t smell like him though. Never did like the powder men used with those ridiculous wigs.” He stretched, wincing as his back cracked, and made to get up, only to sit back down again, his face twisted in a weary grimace. “I’m sorry to ask, but less you want me to crawl there, I need some help.” He gestured towards the stump of his left leg, bootless, and Flint saw the edge of a filthy bandage that had perhaps once been white. He made a mental note to change it the following day, whether Silver wanted him to or not, and assess the damage on the leg before allowing the other man anywhere near that cursed boot. He knew Silver wouldn’t thank him, didn’t want that attention, but Flint didn’t want Silver to die of an infection so easily avoidable, and anyway there was no one there with them to think Silver as weak for accepting help. Not that anyone had thought so anyway, but saying that to Silver was like telling a rock it was a rock. Neither understood. 

Flint got up and rounded the table, wrapping his arm around Silver’s waist again, helping him down the dark corridor. The doors along the way were all closed, though not locked, and Flint could sense the growing curiosity in Silver, only dampened by total exhaustion and the fact he had no means of going exploring by himself. They didn’t exchange a word as Flint half dragged, half carried the other man through the darkness and into the plain guest room, dimly lit by moonlight. It was smaller than Flint had remembered, the bed taking up most of the space, fresh sheets covering the blanket and the pillows, soft and inviting. The floor and the walls were bare of decoration, but the curtained window was large, the surfaces clean and spotless. It was far more comfortable than the cabins in any ship either of the men had ever been on, and Silver slumped down onto the sheets with a deep sigh, black curls falling over his face. He made no attempt to brush them away, curling in on himself like a child, eyes too heavy to stay open any longer. 

As Flint watched, Silver fell asleep, his steady huffs of breath oddly comforting in the dark. He looked even smaller when he slept, the lines of pain and exhaustion momentarily gone from his face. He was very young, after all, much younger than Flint. He wondered what Silver would be doing right now, if Flint and his crew hadn’t attacked the merchant ship he had been on all those months ago. Would he still be alive? Would he still be filled with boundless, restless energy, shooting easy smiles and sarcastic comments at everything and everyone? Would he have a family? Whatever he would’ve been, he would be blissfully unaware of the horrors he now knew, was now a part of. He might’ve been happier, or he might’ve been something else entirely. But Flint didn’t really believe in ‘mights’ and ‘woulds’ in life. They had no place in reality. Flint was there, in the small house with peeling paint and an overgrown vegetable patch, standing at the door of the guest room. And Silver was there with him, the result of every decision he had ever made in his life all eventually having led into him sleeping peacefully in the same house, watched over by a man he might’ve once hated, once feared. It was something neither of them had ever thought to happen, to even be possible. Yet now, it was their reality. 

Flint took a step further into the room, slowly pulling the covers over the sleeping form on the bed. Silver’s black hair was like ink spilled on paper where it spread across the white pillow, and for the first time in a long time Flint gave in to the urge to touch it, running his fingers over the surprisingly coarse curls. Silver hummed in his sleep, turning slightly towards the touch. 

Maybe it was alright, not to be alone all the time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint is as good as his word, and Silver actually DOES know how to cook. Also, the peg leg is off limits.

Clouds had gathered overnight to cover the sky, hanging heavy and ominous above the island, promising a violent storm. The world seemed to have halted, standing still and waiting for the explosion, holding its breath. Birds had fallen silent in their nests, and the air was thick; it clung to Flint like a blanket as he sat on the porch with a small bucket of water and a rag, carefully polishing and cleaning the boot he had grown to hate, nearly as much as Silver, albeit for different reasons. Silver hated everything about it; the way he seemed to be less of a man while wearing it, how walking with it was clumsy and slow. Flint hated it for the pain it caused, for the look on Silver’s face when he had to put it on or take it off. Yet without it, Silver was nearly completely helpless, requiring assistance and company wherever he went, so he tolerated the boot, the pain, if only to let the illusion of his wholeness live. 

Flint frowned at the state of the leather straps on the boot, running his fingers over the buckles. They were worn, cracking, weathered. The boot had been stuck in soil, it had been splattered in blood, it had tolerated hours in sea water under the decks of Walrus, and it had dried in scorching sun for weeks. It was a miracle Silver could still wear it. Deciding he would get a new one made as soon as possible, Flint resumed the cleaning, dipping the rag deep into the murky water. At first, Silver had insisted he could do it himself, saying it was his problem and that surely there was something else for Flint to do in the house. But Flint had merely glared at him, effectively silencing any further protests. However, he hadn’t been able to deny the other man from accompanying him, hardly able to leave him into the bedroom, and now Silver sat on a chair by the open door, hair tied back on a loose ponytail: he was reading a book, the first one he had seen in the house on their way out. It was a story in Spanish, but he had no problems with it, reading out loud and occasionally pausing to laugh in amusement. Flint didn’t understand a word of what he heard, but he enjoyed the sound of Silver’s voice. It had been years, longer than he liked to think, since someone had read aloud to him, or in his presence. He hadn’t mentioned it to Silver, but he had a feeling the other man knew, or guessed. It caused warmth to spread through him, and he realised with surprise that he hadn’t felt quite so comfortable ever since he and Miranda had left London. Hadn’t felt so safe, so at peace with the world. He felt almost guilty for the unfamiliar, long-forgotten bubble of happiness, fragile and invisible yet still there. 

“What are you thinking?” 

Flint halted, turning to glance over his shoulder. Silver was looking at him, curious, a small smile on his lips. He looked almost serene - less haunted than Flint could remember ever seeing him. The book on his lap was closed, his thumb wedged between the pages to hold the place he had reached. Flint ignored the want to ask him to continue reading, instead arching an eyebrow and shooting a pointed look at the filthy bandages covering the other man’s stump. He knew Silver was self-conscious about his leg, but if he was ever going to accept it, having Flint avoid it wouldn’t help. As he had expected, Silver shifted on the chair, yet was unable to hide himself from the scrutiny. 

“I’m thinking those bandages need to be changed and that leg cleaned before I let you even think of wearing this boot again.” Flint grunted, not looking away. 

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” Silver said immediately, an automatic response he had been repeating to everyone ever since he had woken up missing a limb. Everyone knew it wasn’t true, yet no one had been quite brave enough to challenge him. But it was time someone did, and Flint was going to see to the healing of that leg no matter what. With just the two of them in the house and Silver quite unable to take off and disappear, it should prove to be more simple than it had on the ship. 

“It’s not fine, and you’re not fine. Don’t lie to me, it’s not going to change the facts.” Flint set the boot aside, wringing the rag into the bucket. Silver followed his movements, his knuckles white where he squeezed the arm of the chair, as if hoping he could vanish straight through it. 

“It really isn’t your problem-“ he started, and jolted when Flint suddenly got up, looming over him. There was no threat evident in his expression as much as there was determination, and he looked down at Silver in exasperation. 

“It became my problem the moment you opened that gate. I’m not going to let you die of an infection that you’re inflicting upon yourself by mere stubbornness. God forbid Billy is going to march in here looking for you, only to find you dead? Is he going to believe me when I say I didn’t kill you like I promised to do all that time ago? I don’t want that problem, I signed off from all that when I moved in here. So if you wish to stay, you will let me clean that wound and change the bandages, and you will let me do it regularly for as long as it is necessary. If you won’t allow that, then I can’t stop you from returning to the beach.” He held the other man’s gaze, standing so close their knees brushed against each other. There was no way Flint was going to let Silver return to the beach with old bandages and possibly a dirty wound, but he figured it was fair to give Silver the illusion of an option. The other man was smart enough to know it wasn’t a real offer, and that Flint would have his way. 

Silver’s eyes were wide, and he stared back at Flint, cornered and unable to move away. He was still squeezing the arms of the chair like a lifeline, and for a brief moment Flint worried if the other man thought he would hurt him. But then Silver blinked, huffing out a breath and casting his eyes down. 

“At least I got an invitation to stay.” He said, his tone mischievous, and his sky-blue eyes glimmered playfully when he glanced at Flint. Once again, his reaction was wholly unexpected, leaving Flint to wonder which of them had truly won. Although it didn’t matter; he had gotten what he wanted, and with minimum arguing. The reason behind Silver’s easy defeat must’ve been the absence of other people - Silver had spent his recovery time in Flint’s cabin, wrecked with fever and nightmares, sometimes so weak Flint had had to feed him when his hands had trembled too much for him to hold a spoon. It had been terrible, yet intimate enough for Silver to realise that Flint had seen him at his worst, and would undoubtedly not be shaken by anything new. The crew had been another case entirely. Flint hadn’t allowed anyone, save for doctor Howell and Billy, into his cabin, not even anywhere in its immediate vicinity. He had been enraged, and worried sick, and he had understood that Silver would not want to see anyone for a long time. Even Billy was mostly allowed in just so that he could convince the crew their quartermaster was still alive. So truly, changing Silver’s bandages wasn’t anything he hadn’t already done, when the other had still been unconscious, and the wound much worse.

Shaking his head at Silver’s content face Flint entered the house, emptying the bucket and filling it with fresh water, rummaging through the cabins in the bedroom for a clean piece of cloth. Heavy drops of rain hit against the window and the roof, like thousands upon thousands of tiny feet running around outside. Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled, still faint. There was a thrill of something that ran through Flint, always had when a storm was gathering. It was the closest thing to sea he had in the house; unpredictable, wild, dangerous. He peered through the window at the still darkening sky, wondering where the other men of the Walrus were going to find shelter for the day. Probably at Max’s brothel, or the tavern. 

He found an old, clean towel and slung it over his shoulder, returning to the porch. The rain had made the air pleasantly cool, and he breathed deep as he crouched in front of Silver, placing the bucket next to the chair. Silver had the book open again, but Flint could feel his eyes on him, and the pages were not turned. Refusing to look up he grabbed Silver’s left thigh, pulling the leg of the trousers higher above his knee to reveal the bandage. He resisted the urge to ask when Silver had last tended to the wound, but let the unspoken question hang in the air between them, knowing Silver sensed his dismay. The other man squirmed a little when Flint started to strip the bandage away, and was unable to block the small gasp that escaped him when air hit the raw skin of the stump. Flint slid his hand below the knee and raised the leg to inspect it properly, unaware of their compromising position until the moment Silver shifted again. The other man’s face was flushed, but he looked straight at Flint when Flint shot him a look. 

“Have you done anything to this after I left?” Flint asked, dipping the towel into the clean water and bringing it to the mostly healed yet still angry-looking wound. He knew what the answer would be, but frowned anyway and sent a murderous glare towards the man when Silver said no. 

“I didn’t exactly have time!” Silver protested. “I had barely learned how to be a quartermaster when you announced your retirement and left me to be the captain. You knew all along the vote would be in my favour, that I would be the new you if you left. Yet you never thought of training me to it, at least a little, preparing me for all of it. I’m not a military man like you. I have no-“

“What training could I have given you?” Flint interrupted, concentrating on the stump yet hearing the laboured breaths above him as Silver attempted to keep the pain at bay, despite Flint being as gentle as he possibly could. “The men held little regard for me. They feared me. They had little desire to have another captain like me, and having you trained… I don’t think a trained pirate even exists. You learn as you go, and you ask for help when you need it, otherwise the consequences can and will be disastrous. That’s why you cannot be a captain on a ship where you trust absolutely no one. You have to have someone, anyone, you can consult. For me that person was Gates. Then, you. For you it became Billy, as odd as I think that is. But no, I couldn’t have trained you, not like you think I should’ve.”

Silver’s hand shot down then, covering Flint’s where he held the towel against the stump, a small cry escaping his lips. Flint stopped what he was doing immediately, frozen in place; the hand on his was warm, nails digging into his skin. Silver’s face was twisted in a grimace, and he breathed carefully through his nose before slowly letting go. 

“Sorry, that..” He blinked furiously. “I had some problems with that part once, when you left me at the Maroon people’s camp. It’s still fucking sore. I can’t understand why it doesn’t seem to heal.” He swallowed, looking away from the crescent-shaped marks he had left on the back of Flint’s hand. 

You left me, Flint repeated in his head, surprised at the perhaps unintentional choice of words. Had that been the way Silver had viewed it? That Flint had left him? Perhaps it was; there had been no guarantee the crew of the Walrus would survive, and there had been a possibility no one would ever return for him. Maybe waiting in the camp, filled with people more or less hostile towards him, had been terrifying. But surely Silver understood that it had had to be him? Leaving someone less important would’ve been an insult, a joke, towards the tribe. And it wasn’t like Flint had made the decision easily. He had looked for other options until the very last seconds, debating himself on which would be less dangerous; staying in the camp or coming along to face Blackbeard and his men. 

“What kind of problems?” he asked carefully, resuming the cleaning with feather-light touches. He was sure if he let Silver do the cleaning the other would do it quickly, haphazardly, anything to avoid the pain. 

“It had to be cleaned. And by cleaned I mean really, cleaned. Almost reopened, if you can believe. Madi got some… woman, some healer, from the camp to do it. It was almost as bad as when-“ Silver halted, unable to continue, but Flint understood. When the leg had been hacked off, he thought. “I got a bad fever. But maybe it was lucky, that I stayed back, went it through when none of the men were there. I must’ve been a sorry sight.” Silver let out a bitter laugh, a sound that stung Flint like a slap. 

“Lucky?” He repeated quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the leg. It required an effort not to raise his voice at Silver; to keep himself calm. “When are you going to understand? You are still you. You are not weak. You never were weak. Manipulating, lying, thieving, annoying and frustrating, yes. A coward? Yes. But never weak.” He was squeezing Silver’s thigh, maybe slightly harder than necessary. “You didn’t lose your leg running away from a fight. You lost it bargaining for the lives of the men you had fought so hard to get away from. You forced yourself to get up as soon as it didn’t immediately make you faint, and you refused help, refused crutches, refused it all because you thought the men would see you as weak? I watched over you all those days, I cleaned your wound and I listened to you cry and never, not even once, did I think of you as weak. You’re a man, John, not a god. That is the reason they look up to you, care for you, and follow you. Because you’re like them. A human. You saved their lives, you lost a part of yourself to do it. You went through hell to make sure half of them weren’t killed that day. And you think anything you could’ve done after sacrificing all that would’ve made them view you as weak? As useless? You’re not useless. You’re not any less than what you were before.” Flint dropped the towel onto the porch, finally raising his eyes to meet Silver’s. The other man was staring at him, his face devoid of any facades, vulnerable. There seemed to be infinite sadness in the depths of his blue eyes, and Flint hated it all. 

“You’re not a creature.”

They were so close to each other that their breaths mingled, and it was dizzying. It wasn’t what he had aimed for, Flint thought, yet suddenly realised that maybe it was. He ached to show Silver that someone cared about him, that his life was precious and important, not something to be thrown away or discarded as nothing. Too much had been taken away from both of them, in different senses of it, in different ways, and the world had left them broken and bleeding. Yet none of it meant they didn’t deserve something better. They were still alive; they might’ve been torn away from the lives they had once led, once believed to be their fate, but they had survived. They had both been down to Hell and back, tortured mentally and physically, made to watch people being killed on their behalf, because of them. It was something they both understood. But it did not make their lives any less important. It did not make them deserve death as well. Silver was new to it, and Flint was aware of the guilt and horror he felt, felt like he had no right to be there, no right to be looked after when he had so badly failed. But none of that was true. 

Silver blinked then, looking away, breaking the moment as he leaned back on his seat. The mask he had worn since the day Flint first saw him settled back to its place, and the sounds of the world came rushing back; the rain was drumming against the ground like the hooves of a thousand galloping horses, the thunder roaring closer. 

Flint breathed deep before leaning back as well, momentarily closing his eyes as Silver still looked away, across the yard. He let his hand drop away from the other man’s thigh, the loss of contact making him feel cold. 

“I’ll get a new bandage.” He said, getting up, not checking to see if Silver nodded or even paid attention. He refused to let himself go deeper to what had just happened, what maybe could’ve happened. He kept his mind carefully blank as he retrieved the bandages, tossing the old one into the fireplace; clenched his jaw when he returned to the porch. The rain was like a curtain around the house, and Flint was glad of the noise. He avoided looking at Silver, kept his eyes trained down, a small frown of strain on his face. He made sure the leg was dry and completely clean before rolling the bandage open, careful not to touch if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. But he was surprised when Silver stopped him again, this time more gently, laying his hand on Flint’s when he kneeled down in front of him. 

Flint looked up, reluctant to find out what there would be written in Silver’s expression. But there was no hostility, no disgust, no rejection or anger. He still looked sad, but he was smiling. It was heart-wrenching. 

“Thank you.” He said slowly. “For that.” 

Flint nodded, wordless, and when Silver removed his hand he returned to carefully bandaging the wound. Something had changed, something significant, but he didn’t know what. Silver seemed comfortable again, absently running his thumb over the cover of the book, leaning his head against the wall behind him. But there was a new sense to that comfort now, something hard to decipher; the reason danced just out of Flint’s reach. He wondered if Silver knew what it was, but decided against it; the other man would’ve reacted in some way, made it known that he was aware the game had changed. The new feeling was infuriating, like a shadow at the edge of one’s vision that didn’t seem to belong to anything.

They sat in silence, Flint working efficiently and with sure yet deliberately slow movements, giving the other an opportunity to say if he hurt him. A lightning cut the sky in two above them, momentarily painting the world black and white, bright and dangerous. An explosive thunder followed soon after. 

“I believe it’s my turn to cook, if my memory doesn’t completely fail me.” Silver said suddenly. He hadn’t moved his head, but he was looking down at Flint, the corner of his mouth turning upwards. 

Flint grunted, standing up again, satisfied with his work. “With your memory I expect you to remember the day you were born. Yes, it is your turn. But I think we have to postpone that. The boot is off limits for at least a few days.” He looked at Silver, expecting to see contempt, but instead the other smirked, yet again reacting unexpectedly and causing a small headache to start pounding at the back of Flint’s head. If he ever would be able to predict what the other man was going to do, he would consider himself a winner. 

“Guess that only means I’m going to need your help. No need for you to sit idly - you get to be part of the action.” He winked, and Flint closed his eyes. Patience, he thought stubbornly, is a virtue. When he opened them again Silver was laughing, reaching his arms up like a child as a sign for Flint to help him. He did, and together they stumbled into the dark house, Flint reaching to close the door behind them. 

“What is your plan?” he asked as they stood there, Silver clinging to him, his arm maybe tighter around the other’s waist than it needed to be. 

“My plan is to cook for you, something so good you’ve never quite tasted anything like it before. So if you could help me to the kitchen, it would be a good start.” Silver’s tone was playful, and Flint rolled his eyes, but obeyed. In the kitchen he left Silver to lean against the counter, going to light the fireplace and the lamps. Meanwhile Silver let his eyes run all over the place, taking in the little details he hadn’t paid attention to the day before. Miranda’s kitchen was very neat; everything had its place, everything was clean. It was very different from the mess that was the galley of Walrus, and Flint knew Silver felt out of place. He had, too, every time he had returned from the sea. The house had seemed like a paradise, a safe haven, compared to the ship at times, and for someone who had never had a proper house - at least that was what Flint assumed was the case - Silver must’ve felt even more strange. 

“I’m afraid your options are quite limited when it comes to making something I haven’t tasted before.” He said gruffly as he returned to the kitchen, where Silver had busied himself with rolling up his sleeves, carefully making them even. It was a little ridiculous, and Flint huffed out a short laugh that caught Silver’s attention. 

“Well, do you have fish?” Silver asked, tilting his head. 

“No. I haven’t been to Nassau for some time. Any fish would’ve been rotten by now.” Flint leaned against the counter next to the man, crossing his arms. “Anything else?” 

“Uh huh. Do you have chicken?”

“No.” 

“God. Fine, what about pork? Tell me you have pork. I said I can cook but I can’t make food appear, and I fear you will not be quite as taken with my skills if all I can prepare for you is a piece of bread, cut nicely and served on a nice porcelain plate. My God, have you even eaten for all this time?” Silver ran his gaze over Flint, as if trying to see whether he had become skinny and sickly, knowing full well that wasn’t the case. Flint grinned. 

“Why do you think I am short in supplies? I didn’t buy food in hopes you’d appear to prove you can make a decent meal after all. But fine. Tomorrow I’ll go get more. And yes, I do have pork.” He straightened again, crossing the floor and opening the door to a small pantry. “Everything else you might need you’ll find here.” 

“Well, you get the honour of being my pantry boy, because if I take the time to hop there and back every time something is amiss, this lunch will be eaten a week from now.” Silver said matter-of-factly, bringing his hands up to tighten his ponytail.

In the end, cooking with him proved out to be much calmer and lot less hazardous than Flint had feared. The other man seemed to know exactly what to do and how to do it, only requiring help in moving around or fetching something from somewhere he couldn’t reach. He made use of the various spices Miranda had had in glass jars on the wide windowsill, seemingly knowing them all, masking a laugh with a loud cough when it became evident that Flint didn’t. Instead of using their names he began to refer to them in colours; sometimes requesting for something red, occasionally green. The only time Flint had to step in was when Silver was chopping up an onion, his hand moving swiftly and fast, tears streaming down his face but looking at Flint instead of the onion, wiping at his wet cheeks while engaged in an energetic conversation. Flint had shot forward and strictly ordered Silver to keep his eyes on the task at hand, less he wanted to lose his fingers. Silver had looked like he had a smart retort ready at his tongue, eyes puffy and red and defiant, but instead of letting it out he had simply sniffled, making sure to keep his gaze on the onion. 

At one point, Flint had asked Silver what recipe he was using, and had been rewarded with a sheepish smile. 

“None, to be frank. I just do what seems like a good idea.” The man had offered Flint a toothy grin for his worries, but later, when Flint sat down at the table and tasted the food, he came to the immediate conclusion that the answer had been a lie. He wasn’t sure he had ever tasted something so delicious, or at least couldn’t remember. Granted Silver used spices lavishly, resulting in both of them sniffling into their plates and blinking away a couple of unshed tears, it was still the best food Flint had eaten in years. And Silver knew he thought so, if his cocky smirk was anything to go by. 

“You shit.”

Silver feigned hurt feelings, letting out a small, offended gasp. Flint ignored it. 

“You deliberately kept poisoning my crew for weeks.” He said, trying to keep from smiling yet failing. Silver looked mildly relieved, shaking his head. 

“They had it coming. Besides, Randall was not the easiest helper to have around. He had a thing for potatoes, I’m sure you noticed - every time I was with him, he was peeling potatoes. It was unnerving. And the pig fiasco-“

Again, Flint found himself laughing, leaning back on the chair, using his thumb to wipe a stray tear from his cheek. The spices had made his nose run, and Silver didn’t look much better off. 

“Why are you laughing?” Silver asked, curious. “I swear you can ask Billy, but your ship had more potatoes on board than it had anything else combined. I can still see them in my mind, and I am not joking. Randall made it his mission to shock me with yet more of them every time I-“ his mouth clamped shut as Flint doubled over, laughing so hard he feared he might sprain something. He couldn’t help but wonder if Silver was doing it on purpose, trying to make him laugh, but in truth he didn’t care. No one had probably ever laughed in that house after he and Miranda had bought it, not really. It had been a place of sad, painful memories, a house occupied only by two people sharing the same, terrible past. Silver was like a breath of fresh air, the uncertain future Flint hadn’t known he could have. 

“You’re truly amazing, you know that?” He said finally, leaning his elbow on the table for support. 

“And you’re quoting me.” Silver answered, but couldn’t help preening - he seemed to have a weakness for any kind of compliments. “The potatoes were a real problem though.”

Flint snorted. “Fine, I’ll take your word.” 

They both jolted as thunder exploded right above them, loud enough to make the windows rattle in their frames. The fire crackled wildly in the fireplace before settling down again, like a living creature, and the rain seemed strong enough to pierce the roof at any moment. 

“I think this situation calls for that bath I missed last night,” Silver said airily, running a hand through his hair; it seemed limp and tangled, the curls Flint had to admit he was slightly obsessed with nearly gone, replaced by thick, heavy ringlets. “Don’t ask me when I last bathed, even my memory doesn’t reach that far.” He looked up, expectant, his expression strange. 

“What?” Flint asked, comfortably tired, his brain perhaps catching up slightly slower than usually. 

“Well, I never thought I’d say this, definitely not to you but… I’m going to need help with that bath. Unless of course you let me have the boot, in which case I am perfectly fine.” There was a slight blush colouring Silver’s cheeks, but he didn’t avert his gaze, defiantly staring at Flint and waiting for his words to sink in. 

Flint stayed still for a moment, expressionless, before moving his chair back and standing up. “As I said earlier, the boot is off limits for a few days.” He said slowly. “And I’m sure we can both make this work like reasonable people, unless you plan on being difficult.” He glared at the other man, and Silver raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. 

“I’d never.” He said, but there was something nearly triumphant on his face, glimmering in his eyes. It threw Flint off, and he couldn’t help but think Silver had used Flint’s own illusion of a choice against him: knowing the boot wasn’t really an option, but mentioning it so as not to seem too…what? Flint was unable to conjure up the proper word. But surely Silver hadn’t really expected for this to happen? Cleaning a wound was one thing, but this…Brushing his suspicions aside he stepped close to Silver, helping him up once more, coming face to face with the other man’s bright smile. They were breathing the same air, for the second time that day, but Flint was determined not to let anything get off hand and turned away, starting towards the bathroom. The whole house was creaking and moaning in the wild wind, creating an eerie world of sounds around them, loud enough to block their own thoughts, which Flint was grateful for. 

“That looks comfortable,” Silver said as they entered the bathroom, his gaze landing on the large bath tub in the middle of the floor. It was outright luxurious compared to many, and definitely large enough for a man Silver’s size to sit comfortably. He grabbed the wall for support as Flint went forward to prepare the water, and Flint wondered what the hell was going to happen next. Was he supposed to wait in the room? Surely not, that would be outrageous. But could Silver drown? Yes, yes he could, leg or no leg, but then again it would be impossible for Flint to stay. What on earth would he do with himself? He made a silent vow to prepare the water and to help Silver close to the tub, and then leave the room. He could go into the bedroom and read for the time being, close enough to hear if something went wrong or if Silver needed help. And later when Silver would be finished- Flint halted. 

He hadn’t thought of it. He had been busy worrying about getting Silver into the bath, but he hadn’t thought of getting him out. The image that swam through his head was nearly too much, and, tempted to rush to the porch and retrieve the damned boot, he turned, meaning to ask Silver how the other had thought of handling the situation. 

What he hadn’t prepared himself for was the sight of the other man having already undressed, save for his breeches and the shiny, white bandage covering what was left of his leg. He had pulled off the leather string from his hair, long, shiny ringlets falling over his shoulders and brushing his chest, a few stray ones in front of his face as he raised his head to answer Flint’s stare. He was all toned muscle and slim hips, his skin seemingly glowing softly, pale and flawless - despite his tendency to anger people and to get himself into dangerous situations, he lacked scars, save for one; a long, thin slash right below his heart. It looked like it had been deep, even dangerous; an inch or so higher and he wouldn’t be standing there, would never have been on the ship Flint and his crew had taken over. Flint wanted to ask about it, but found he couldn’t go down that road, not yet. Instead he cleared his throat, looking down at his feet and manually keeping his breathing steady. 

“You can’t let the wound get wet.” He said, his voice terribly hoarse. 

“What?” Silver sounded distant, as if talking from another room. “Why not?” 

“It’s been cleaned, and it isn’t a good idea to do anything to it right now. I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep it dry.” 

“I’ll have to hang it over the edge? Christ. That’ll make this even harder. But fine, alright. I’m not interested in having to deal with this bloody stump for any longer, so I’ll listen to you. And, just so you know, you think really loud. I was able to hear your brain at work just now, and I think I know what it was you were working yourself over. And the answer is no. You don’t have to stay in the room. I promise I’ll keep myself afloat.” His grin and tone were playful, making light of the situation he had quickly realised, or more likely thought, to be foreign, or perhaps unwanted, to Flint. It definitely wasn’t either, and Flint blushed violently, his feet having grown roots to where he stood next to the bath tub like a statue. He wanted to move, to leave the room, to do something, anything. And it didn’t help that Silver was still looking at him, something akin to concern evident on his face. 

“Flint-“ 

Right then, the house was rattled by a new sound, something that caught both of the men off guard. They stood still, holding their breaths, their eyes locked together and each pair reflecting the disbelief in the other. The sound came again, confirming what they had briefly thought to have been their own imagination; someone was knocking, no, beating the front door, the sound echoing through the house. 

‘Who the fuck..” Silver was frowning, his body half-turned towards the bathroom door. Flint blinked, his limbs cooperating again - he strode past Silver and into the darkness, disappearing only momentarily to grab his pistol from the bedroom before returning, eyes trained to the front room and the door. The knocking came again, accompanied by thunder and a flash of lightning. It was madness, that someone would’ve been out there in the storm. But there was no mistaking the sound, and Flint cocked his pistol while making his way down the corridor. Images flashed through his mind: England having learned of his retirement, having returned, determined to find him and kill him, ready to burn him down with the house. The Spanish having sent someone for revenge, still lacking their precious gems and having only ever heard of one name associated with them, now looking for the owner of that name. He didn’t really believe for either of the options to be true, but he couldn’t come up with anyone who would be knocking at his door in the midst of a thunderstorm. 

Reaching the door Flint stopped, pointing his pistol before grabbing the handle, his heart beating furiously in his chest. He brought his finger to the trigger and steeled his nerves, pulling the door open with one swift motion, nearly firing immediately yet by some miracle waiting to see who it was, curiosity taking the upper hand. 

In the doorway, drenched to the bone and heavily dripping water, holding in his hand Silver’s discarded peg leg, stood Billy. He was looking at the boot, his expression a mixture of disbelief and something else Flint couldn’t name. He didn’t seem to have noticed he was standing at gunpoint, and Flint lowered the pistol quickly, incapable of thinking what to say. ‘Welcome’ would probably not sound right, and ‘what the hell are you doing here’ was not something a man who had practically swam through an island to stand at the door would want to hear. 

At last Billy looked up, his eyes locking with Flint’s. He raised the peg leg in his hand, the accusation written clearly across his face. Flint knew what was coming before the other man opened his mouth.

“You killed him?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. :'DD Silver is a little shit and I think Flint should just kiss him already; that's clearly what he wants.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy has a surprise awaiting. Flint has a thick head. Silver gets the bath (finally). And porcelain cups aren't made to be handled by rough pirates.

Billy sat, soaking, in front of the fireplace, eyes trained on the pistol Flint had laid on the table between them. He had nearly gotten himself shot, and he knew it now, having pushed past Flint and into the house, nearly deaf to the other man’s protests that he had not killed Silver; that the boot left on the porch did not automatically mean that Flint was getting rid of a body. He hadn’t seemed inclined to believe Flint, not until Silver had stumbled into the room, leaning heavily against the wall, still half undressed and outraged. He had been close to falling straight down onto his face, but by a miracle had stayed upright, glaring daggers at both men. To say he had been irritated for having been left wondering into the bathroom, waiting to hear a gunshot and unable to know what the fuck was going to happen would’ve been putting it lightly. Flint had politely kept himself from mentioning that should it have been an enemy behind the door, dragging Silver along while trying to hold and aim a pistol would’ve resulted in both of their deaths. 

Billy had adopted a look of astonishment upon seeing Silver at the doorway, half naked and fuming. He had glanced at the boot, then at the clean white bandages covering the stump, and had put together two and two. Then he had shrugged and apologised, grinning sheepishly, and both Silver and Flint had cast their eyes towards the heavens in unison. Flint had pointed Billy to a seat near the fire, setting the pistol onto the table and striding over to Silver, silently helping him back into the bathroom -- he was sure Billy had been able to hear the few choice words Silver had had in store for him, for leaving him unarmed and alone. 

At the moment - after making sure Silver was in the bath, with his bandaged leg hanging over the side to keep it from getting wet - Flint was seated at the table across from Billy, his brow furrowed, absently stroking his beard. The room was warm, but Billy had dripped a puddle onto the floor, the fire reflecting from the water in an orange glow. The house was quiet save for the crackling of the flames and the creaking of the window frames in the wind.

“You do understand that my concerns were justified?” Billy asked into the silence. 

Flint hummed. “I assume you came here when he didn’t come back yesterday. But why would you think I had killed him?” he hadn’t quite been able to wrap his mind around it; Billy had seemed so certain that it had happened.

“It wasn’t that.” Billy said. “At first I wondered if he was even going to find you. He’s never been here before, and the instructions he got were vague, to put it nicely. I fully expected him to return the same night, saying he hadn’t been able to locate the house. He didn’t, and then the storm came… I figured it’d be for the best I checked whether or not he was wandering around the island, too proud to return empty-handed, or just lost.” He shook his head. “Eventually I decided to search here. And I saw the boot. And truly, you can’t blame me for thinking the worst. Even during the last weeks with you as the captain there was always some level of uneasiness between you two. And he was always so adamant about the leg - he has barely taken the damned thing off for the few months you weren’t there.”

“I noticed.” 

Billy narrowed his eyes. “But it seems you have started to get along pretty well.” 

Flint knew what he meant. He had managed to get Silver to take off the boot. He had been allowed to change the bandages, and Silver had seemed relatively at ease around him, even when Flint had helped him back into the bathroom, being closer than they had ever been before, especially with someone else around. And Flint had helped him, without asking or thinking, without saying a word, and Silver had let it happen; a sign it wasn’t anything new to either of them. Some might have disregarded all of it, but Billy was too perceptive, had always been. He was good at observing, and he was the only one who had seen what happened inside Flint’s cabin when Silver had been recovering. He had witnessed the worry, the relief, the small, unfamiliar smiles. He had walked in on Flint reading, out loud, more than once, even when Silver had been sleeping, and had been free to think what he wanted. Even after Flint had momentarily fallen back, when Silver had lied to him about the Urca gold, the feelings had merely been pushed to the background, without never truly vanishing, the change that had come between them still palpable. So Flint shouldn’t have been surprised, not really, but he was. Not so much for the conclusion Billy had arrived to, but for the fact that he himself, apparently, was more obvious than he knew. And he did not want that. 

“Nothing’s changed.” He said sternly. He couldn’t deny what he was feeling, not from himself, but he could suppress it; what he felt was wrong. It seemed like he was deliberately trying to chase away the memories whenever he caught himself looking at Silver, following his movements, wanting to touch. It had been a long time since he had felt anything like it, and in truth it terrified him. Everyone he had ever loved, ever cared for, had been taken away from him. Each of them in brutal, unfair ways, each of them losing their lives before their time. First had been Thomas, the kindest, smartest man Flint had ever known. A man who hadn’t done anything to deserve death; a man Flint had driven to his early grave. Next had been Gates, by Flint’s own hand, Flint’s mistakes becoming too much for the other man to remain with him or on his side any longer. He could still see it, hear the crack of his neck, feel the weight of him as they slumped down, moments before Silver would appear. By then Flint had been tired of death, tired of having to bury his life away, piece by piece. 

And then, they had taken Miranda. For the sole reason of being desperate, angered by the fact a man she had considered a friend for all these years being revealed the reason behind her husband’s death, behind her exile. She had had every right to shout at him, every right to put to words what Flint had been too shocked to comprehend. She had never hurt anyone. She had been kind, loving, motherly. And she had been shot through the head for being dangerous, her body displayed to people who knew nothing about her, nothing about her life and what horrors, what pain, she had had to struggle through. She had been Flint’s rock. The one he could cling to when the world became too heavy, when the ground disappeared from beneath him. All she had ever done was help, be there for him, and he had led her to death. 

He would never let it happen again. 

Beside the fire, Billy’s head shot up, the sudden movement returning Flint back to present, and he saw the other staring at the door with a faint frown on his face, as if listening. Flint was unable to hear anything besides the heavy rain and wind, accompanied by the occasional rumbling of thunder, but apparently Billy could hear something more; he looked slightly concerned. Flint was about to ask what was the matter, when Billy beat him to it:

“By the way, there’s something I ought to mention to you-“

Heavy steps from the porch drew Flint’s attention, and he glanced up just as the door was thrown open, partly by the strong wind, partly by the man stumbling into the house in a hurry, possibly even more soaked than Billy had been. His clothes were glued to his body like a second skin, his hair clinging to his face and neck, and it took Flint a moment to recognise him. When he did, he turned to glare at Billy, eyebrows arched and teeth bared in an angry snarl. 

“Tell me you didn’t bring Charles Vane with you.”

Behind him, the man had a brief struggle with closing the door against the wind, but was eventually successful and slumped against the wall, dripping yet another puddle onto the floor to accompany Billy’s. His pale blue eyes shone eerily from the shadows, and he shot Flint a small grin. 

“I had to.” Billy said defensively. “This island is pretty large, you know. I had no idea where Silver could’ve ended up, and thus, I came to the conclusion I needed some help. And I know what you’re going to say - you want to ask me why I didn’t just tell the men of the crew to give a hand. But they’ve been through hell these past two months and deserved their rest. And no sane man would’ve left anywhere in this weather, even if they hadn’t been at Max’s. So I turned to the second best option - no offence.” He glanced at Charles, who shrugged nonchalantly. 

“None taken.” He straightened, and walked to stand beside Billy, his back turned towards the fire. Together they were a sorry sight, wet to the bone and shivering. It was hard not to pity them a little, but there were questions that needed answers before Flint could start offering tea and sympathy. 

“So you’ll have me believe,” He began, “That he just agreed to come and search for Silver in this storm? That he had nothing better to do but help you?” he looked at Billy, incredulous. 

“I’m here, you know.” Charles said before Billy could speak, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “You can just ask me why, instead of pretending I’m not.” There was a slight tilt to his head, one that reminded Flint of the teenage boy Charles had been when Flint had first set foot in Nassau. It had been over a decade ago, but some things never seemed to change. 

“Fine.” He sighed. “Why are you here, Charles?” 

“Well, for personal fun, mostly. And because I felt it my duty after giving Mr. Silver the directions, finding them lacking only after he had departed—“

“He means I threatened him to come,” Billy interrupted quickly. “When I found out it had been him giving Silver the information of your whereabouts.”

Charles grinned. “I honestly didn’t purposefully steer him into a wrong place. But it’s been a while since I was here, and it was a brief visit.” He looked around the dimly lit room. “Are the porcelain cups still here?” 

“Well whatever it is you said to Silver,” Flint said, ignoring the question. “It couldn’t have been that far off, given that he is here, and has been since yesterday. So if you’ll kindly tell me what made you come here when ’no sane man would’ve left anywhere in this weather’, I’d be grateful.” He arched an eyebrow. He knew there had to be another reason for Charles’ presence; he couldn’t remember a time when anyone would’ve been able to threaten him to do anything. Everything Charles Vane did, he did for a reason, and because he himself wanted to. And claiming to have given Silver poor directions was a lame excuse. Although Flint had to admit he probably wouldn’t have thought much of it, if it weren’t for Billy’s flushed face and sudden inability to look anywhere near him.

Charles regarded him for a moment, eyes bright. “Alright.” He said finally, ignoring the deathly glare Billy shot his way, further confirming Flint’s suspicions. “We would’ve had this conversation eventually anyway. I’m here because I fucked someone over back in Nassau, and they are after my head. Billy said your place is far enough for me to lay low for a while, so I took the chance. It was mere coincidence that he was also worried that Silver would be lost somewhere. I only said I wasn’t sure I remembered the place correctly, but I’m not lying when I say I was the one he asked for help.” He looked at Billy. “Sorry, but I told you your plan wasn’t going to work, even for a moment.” 

Billy widened his eyes in annoyance. “Well thanks for trying so hard.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Flint said, his voice loud enough to get the pair’s attention. “But you offered him my house as a hideout?” he was unsure what to make of it, his hand resting on the table near the pistol. Billy looked at it again, briefly, as if to make sure it hadn’t migrated back to Flint’s grasp. 

“Yes.” Charles said blatantly. “It was a nice thing to do.” 

Billy looked like he wanted to roll his eyes, but managed not to. He kept his gaze fixed on Flint, and surprise flickered across his features when Flint sighed, leaning back on the chair. 

“I guess it was. How long are you going to stay then?” he was too tired to think of it. Just yesterday he had been alone, accompanied only by his horse, and now there were three pirates in his house, two half-drowned ones and one who was probably drowning as they spoke. The phrase ‘be careful what you wish for’ took a new meaning in his head. Truthfully, he didn’t mind having Charles Vane use the house as an escape; if he truly had fucked someone over -like he probably had- the consequences might’ve been dire depending on who had been involved. He had no doubts against Charles’ ability to fight his way out of most conflicts, but the man wasn’t immortal. And at the moment he was in Flint’s house, and Flint would be damned if he sent him away. He felt like he owed the pirate, especially after his actions in the war against the English, having helped Billy turn the people of Nassau against the new laws. In more ways than one, Vane had managed to save his life. 

“A few days, give or take. Jack’s going to let me know when it’s safe to return, or at least safer. Half a Nassau I can handle, but not all of it at once.” Charles smirked. 

Flint let himself smile faintly, casting his eyes down, taking a breath to say something when movement to his left made him grasp for the pistol again; the storm and the newcomers had made him nervous for another surprise. Yet it was only Silver - having moved unnervingly silently given that he only had the use of his right leg. He was fully clothed again, save for his coat, but he had left his hair open; it was still slightly wet from the bath, but clean and soft. He looked healthier, with his face scrubbed clean, and Flint followed how his eyes widened when he saw the newest addition to the house’s current inhabitants.

“Well the surprises sure keep coming.” He said after a moment, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes twinkled playfully when he glanced at Flint. “Did you threaten him with the gun too?”

“Didn’t get the chance.” Flint answered dryly, not knowing whether he should help Silver to a seat or let him ask for help first; it had all been much more simple with just the two of them in the house. Silver looked comfortable enough, but there was a doubt he had simply mastered the look, and balancing on one foot couldn’t have been easy. Yet Billy had already figured out what was going through Flint’s head concerning his former quartermaster, or at least he thought he had, and for some reason Flint didn’t want to seem too close with the man, knowing that Billy would see everything and only become harder to convince to think otherwise. It was already hard enough to convince himself to discard what had been storming through his head for months now, something he had thought to be gone up until the moment the conjurer of those storms had appeared into his life once again, sporting the same smile he had all that time ago. Flint had figured he could work it out somehow, in silence, but now there was a witness, another person who had found out, and he didn’t want to encourage suspicion. Not when he himself was so uncertain about it. 

Next to Billy, Charles got up, unbothered by same indecisiveness, and strode confidently to Silver, offering his hand. 

“Figured you might want to sit.” He said, his tone neutral enough to make Silver not feel uncomfortable for the attention. Instead Silver grinned, grabbing the offered hand with ease.

“You figured it right.” He said amiably, and Charles helped him to a chair next to Flint’s. If either noticed the glare they received, neither mentioned it. Silver seemed to be on a good mood, a constant albeit faint smile on his face, and shifted on his seat until his and Flint’s arms were merely a hair’s width from each other. He did it all unashamedly, naturally, looking like it didn’t bother him at all, or like it wasn’t his intention to more or less snuggle up to the other man. 

Flint was ready to throttle someone.

“I gather the deal went wrong then,” Silver said calmly, “If you’ve come all the way here.” He sounded amused, eyes trained on Vane’s.

“It did.” Charles hummed. “I never held high expectations for it, but it was worth a try. What I didn’t expect was most of Nassau disagreeing with me. I’ll be laying low for a few days now. Flint was kind enough to offer me the use of this place, and I’ve accepted. Eleanor won’t be looking for me from here, at least not yet.” There was a tinge of frustration to his voice when he spoke her name.

Silver turned his head towards Flint. “That was nice.” His eyes were teasing, and Flint carefully counted to ten before narrowing his eyes and letting out the breath he had been holding.

“Very,” he said brusquely. “I take it you were aware, then, of the possibility Charles would come here?”

“Oh I was.” Silver said happily. “Well, not here exactly, that surprised me too. But I was aware of the possibility that he might need a place to hide. And it did come to mind that he knew where you lived, and that he could appear at any time. If that counts.” His smile was wide; his teeth were perfectly white, almost unnatural in the faint lighting of the room. Flint wanted to wipe the smile right off his face. 

“I see.” He grunted. 

“I bet you guys are cold,” Silver said, still looking at Flint but pointing his words to Charles and Billy. “Would you like a drink?”

You little shit, Flint thought after both men had said yes, but got up nonetheless and went into the kitchen. He listened to the conversation going on, slightly surprised at the friendliness between Charles and Silver; they had never interacted much, at least not to Flint’s knowledge. He smiled faintly when Silver begun a story, apparently reciting the one where he had hunted for sharks with Flint during that terrifying time of the calm, the entire crew of Walrus being stuck at the sea. It had not been even remotely enjoyable at the time, but Silver’s telling made it sound like some kind of a great adventure; and maybe, looking back, it had been. It had certainly been the first time Flint had allowed himself to consider Silver as something other than a rival - something other than an enemy. He had, for the first time, started to appreciate the fact that Silver had become his quartermaster. Listening now, the picture of the day was painted vividly before his eyes, and he could nearly feel the heat, the dryness of his throat, and the soothing sway of the longboat beneath him. He didn’t know why Silver had chosen that story - he had plenty of others to tell, and Billy had even been there - but Charles seemed interested. Looking at him, Flint got an idea; he opened the cupboard and pulled out one of the porcelain teacups Miranda had brought with her from London. It was a pretty little thing, with dark blue and gold rim, purple flowers fading into the white, all painted intricately by hand. The handle was slim and fragile, not designed to be handled by rough pirates. Flint set the porcelain cup on the counter and poured the rum, keeping his face straight when walking back to the others and setting the cup in front of Charles. For Billy and Silver he had brought normal crystal glasses. 

Charles blinked at the cup. 

“I’m afraid I ran out of glasses.” Flint said airily, returning to his seat, careful not to grin; next to him, Silver had halted his storytelling, his face confused. Billy looked interested to see what would happen next. 

Ever so slowly, without missing a beat and moving as if fearing a simple breath would topple the fragile cup from the table, Charles reached out and took it, clumsily closing his hand around it like it was a mug. He hooked his index finger through the handle for support, before bringing the cup up and downing the rum at one go. Then he set the cup back on the table just as carefully. It was a strange sight, seeing a pirate who once had beheaded another one, handle something so small with such delicacy. 

“Thanks.” He said, and Silver let out an abrupt laugh. 

“Never thought I’d see that,” Billy mumbled into his glass. 

“How many of those have you broken in your life?” Charles asked seriously, looking at Flint. “If you squeeze hard enough it’s done for. I still cannot see the point in having any.” 

“True.” Flint said, smiling. “But then again you once told me that this cup,” he nodded towards it, “Is dangerous. Not because of its fragility, but because of what it represents. I’m an Englishman. For me, that is a representation of home, as odd as it is, and as insignificant as something so small seems. It isn’t about how many of them you might break. There might be no point in having any, not to you, but for me, for Miranda, there was. It’s a connection, or a memory. We brought them here when we ran away from London, because they were small and light enough to carry along. And not once did I question the decision to take them with us - it was clear why we did it. As it is, my life wasn’t always here, or at the sea.”

Silver had shifted again, his arm now touching Flint’s, just faintly enough to be felt. It was oddly comforting, yet seemingly accidental.

“Are you still as keenly against having a home as you were the last time we were here?” Flint asked, and Charles frowned, thinking. 

“A permanent home? Yes. Domesticity isn’t something I put much value on. I enjoy being out at the sea, and I enjoy coming back to Nassau. But to me, Nassau is a base. One of the last places where pirates can truly live their lives at peace. The Spaniards took Havana a little while back, and more pirates have since arrived on this island, looking to continue what they’ve done for most of their lives. I don’t see another way of living, not for myself. Settling down, with the same views, same little things from one day to the other. I can’t see it happening.” He shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. One day, if I’m not dead before it, I might have to settle. I’m not stupid enough to think pirates will prevail for much longer. The day is coming when Nassau will be taken from us. We fought for it once, and suffered incredible losses. But we won, and we kept Nassau. But you know as well as I that it was not a permanent victory.” 

“I do.” Flint admitted. He had nearly lost everything in that war, and he had fought it for more reasons than just keeping Nassau. For him, it had been long-awaited revenge, every slit throat and pierced skull containing a small fragment of his rage, the one that had so long threatened to consume him. He hadn’t cared if he would die as the result of it; he had been a part of the force that had caused a gaping wound to England, and it had been deserved. He held no love, no fondness, for his old country. For him, England hadn’t been a home for years. He hadn’t had one, not until he had returned to the small house and made it so. He knew that Charles was right, that England, or Spain, or even France, would eventually come back. The truth was that there simply weren’t enough pirates left to hold back another invasion. Their time of peace was limited, and the knowledge of it hung in the air like a veil. 

“But maybe,” Silver said, his low voice cutting into the quiet, “by the time they come back, we will all be dead. Of old age, of some illness, maybe as the result of a fight in the inn. Maybe we get unlucky and drown at sea. It might be next week that they return, or it might be ten years from now. But I wouldn’t worry about it until it happens. And even when it does, should we still be alive and well, there are endless seas out there. Places where no one lives or has been before, places no one has found yet. Places that aren’t drawn on any map that exists. We can always leave, if it comes to that. Find another island, another Nassau. I for one am going to do just that if I’m still capable of standing by the time someone decides that the time for pirates has really come to an end. I think everyone on this island knows that this was not going to last forever. Nothing ever does.” He smiled calmly, and something fluttered in Flint’s chest. His words were optimistic, a promise of something, a reassurance that the world would go on no matter what happened. Even when all of them would be gone, even hundreds of years from that day, when pirates no longer existed and their wars were simply known as history, the world would still move on. Even when no one would remember Captain Flint, or John Silver, or Charles Vane anymore, when their legends slowly faded away, it still wouldn’t be the end. They were, all of them, just people. What legacy they would leave behind them would merely be the sum of the decisions they had made in their lives, the choices they had deemed better than others. In the end, it was all just a fleeting moment. 

A sudden snore made all the men jump, and they turned their gazes to where Billy had fallen asleep. His head had lolled down, and the crystal glass still containing a drop of rum was dangerously balancing in his weakened grasp. Charles reached for it and set it on the table, next to the porcelain cup. 

“Should I wake him?” he asked. 

“Don’t,” Flint said, straightening his back. “He’s been out there all day. Let him sleep.” 

“That reminds me, I’ve been out there all day as well.” Charles said airily. It earned him a frown from Flint, who hadn’t really thought of where to put people to sleep; one of the problems was solved, with Billy snoring softly in front of the fireplace. But there was only one guest room, and the thought of making Charles and Silver share it was something he did not want to think about. But he had promised Charles that he could stay for a few days, till everything settled down in Nassau. Now he just needed to think of how to present the plan of making the other sleep in a chair or on the table like it was the only choice available. 

“You can sleep in the guest room.” Silver’s voice pierced Flint’s thoughts, and he looked down, to where his former quartermaster was smiling lazily. Silver answered his look, the smile turning slightly wary; like he wasn’t entirely confident of the reaction he was going to get, or if he was worried of what was going to happen next. He had a plan he had no idea whether or not Flint would approve of. 

“And you?” Flint asked carefully. “Where are you planning on sleeping?” he knew what the other was thinking, but he wanted to hear it. He was glad the dim light covered the fact his face was gradually heating up; it seemed like the world was making fun of him, driving him closer and closer when he desperately tried to remain at distance. 

“Well,” Silver said, grabbing the edge of the table and standing up, downing his rum with a practiced flick of his wrist. His smile was blinding when he set the glass down with a determined thunk. 

“I’m sure the master bedroom is big enough for both of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like probably all of us I was really shocked about the latest episode, which is why I wrote Charles already into this chapter. Reading this now it seems maybe a bit short but that's because I had to divide the chapter in two, otherwise it would've been as long as the first two chapters combined and I don't want that :'D I'll be editing and adding things to the other half of the chapter and posting it as soon as possible xDD (for the ones wondering, there will be a kitten. Because it was one of the adopted headcanons and frankly, I enjoy the idea). Anyway, I hope you enjoy!! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint has a new kind of nightmare, but Silver hasn't really changed. And Charles really took to that porcelain.

He is standing on a raised stage, in the middle of a crowd of faceless, soundless people. He is not looking at them, his gaze averted, dark lashes creating shadows like trails of tears on his pale cheeks. His dark curls are brushing against his shoulders, dancing in the wind, and he has clasped his hands in front of him; it looks like he is praying. The air around him is rippling, and he seems to flutter, like a frail shadow, doomed to evaporate under the brightness of the sun. 

Flint can see him, and only him; the people around him are of little importance, melting into each other, a sea of colours that move like waves. He is moving, too, towards the stage, towards him, pushing at everything he comes into contact with, creating a path to the short flight of stairs that lead up, above the crowd. No one tries to stop him as he ascends the stairs and walks up to him, taking his place beside him, feeling the wooden boards beneath him vibrate with the force of the noise he cannot hear. He feels like there is no air left to breathe, blinking against the dryness of his eyes, digging his nails into the palms of his hands. Pressure is building at the back of his head; a budding headache at the obnoxious colours of the too bright world, only soothed when he looks at the soft blue that is the man beside him. The man seems clear now, less bright, less sharp, and he is the air, the water, the reality that Flint is clinging to. 

“Look at them all,” the man says, calm, quiet, the only sound in the midst of the white noise. Flint does, and it’s like looking out at the sea; the whole world has come to be in attendance, the whole world is shouting, and he is unable to hear it. He looks at them, squinting, trying to make out different faces, different features, but everything is the same, a repetition or a reflection of what he has already seen. The pain comes back in a flash, and with a sharp inhale he returns his gaze to the man.

“I can’t,” He says, and its barely louder than a whisper. The corners of the man’s mouth quirk upwards, in a shadow of a smile much brighter, one Flint now realises he hasn’t seen in a long time. 

“Can you hear them?” the other asks. 

“No.”

The man seems almost surprised at that, but says nothing, giving a last look at the people before turning towards Flint, accompanied by the sound of metal scraping against wood. As he turns, the sounds of the crowd hit Flint like a wall, finally pouring over, rising in volume before abruptly disappearing: the shadows rush in like waves, wiping away the world, until there is only him, and the man. It is as if the man had orchestrated it all; conjured up the people and kept them there for his own, momentary amusement. He looks at Flint now, distracted from keeping up the facade of his own universe, and the darkness sets in. What light there had been in his eyes, in his expression, that had felt so calm, dies out like a flame. His face becomes a shadowed mask, nearly terrifying to look at, the blue of his eyes like fire burning in the darkness. He is beautiful, yet horrifying, and irresistible like death. 

“You made me, yet I surpassed you.” The man says, and his eyes are so bright it hurts to look at them. “You created me, knowing that if I wasn’t strong enough, I’d end up like them.” He looks away again, and Flint follows his gaze. Ahead of them, mingling with the shadows, three figures are standing with their faces turned towards them. They are blurry, flickering, first there and then not, but Flint can make out black, bottomless sockets directed his way - old, ripped pieces of clothing, rotten flesh hanging from darkened bones. Two men, and one woman. 

He staggers back, but the man’s hand on his arm keeps him in place. 

“You let me in,” the man says, “You let me get close, knowing what would happen if I was too weak to resist you. Knowing that your demons would become mine, until I would be unable to fight them off anymore. Knowing that if I didn’t have the same darkness in me as you have, meeting you would’ve been the first nail in the wooden box that would confine me beneath the ground, beneath your feet as you continued existing. But you wanted to see. You were curious. You wanted to know whether a man as cruel, as dark, as you, existed. In your mind, my fate was to be one of two: either I would die, or I would resist, remain as myself and be unaffected by the whispers that filled my head each time you were close.” The man grins, his grip on Flint’s arm tightening. 

“But you didn’t consider the third option. You failed to imagine that a man even darker, even more cruel than you walked the earth at the same time as you. That under the optimism, the wit, the innocence, I would be even worse than you, worse than you could ever become, even if the world was taken away from you, even if you were left with absolutely nothing. You failed to see that as you resented what you had become, the world resented you too. But I love what I have become.” The man let go, tilting his head, and Flint couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared at the man he had felt every emotion under the sun for. The grin on the man’s face widened; he seemed to drip darkness, and right then, he was everything.

“And thus, the world loves me too.”

 

\------------------------------------

 

It was still dark when Flint opened his eyes, possibly even more exhausted than he had been prior to going to sleep. He had stopped waking with a jolt or a scream a long time ago, the nightmares having become somewhat familiar; they were less frequent, but they were not yet gone. However, he hadn’t dreamed of Silver before, not even once, not as far as he could recall. His previous nightmares had been memories, twisted and dark and untrue - terrifying, yet something that he had later been able to brush off as lies. The new dream, it seemed, had been a reflection of his recently founded fears; that eventually even Silver would wither away, too tired to resist Flint’s darkness, too exhausted to remain separate from it. Unless - Flint shuddered at the slowly fading remnants of the dream - he would be strong enough to surpass it. Flint felt like he was filthy: as if everything he touched, everything he looked at, would either die or live to become twisted, cruel, unable to find joy in anything but power over others, over the burning fire following close behind at every step, ready to devour its target whole and wipe him away from the face of the earth. As if it was impossible for anyone to get closer to him and survive it innocent, remain good and as they had been. 

Yet the most terrifying, most unbearable part of it, was to think Silver would live to become a monster, created by the man he had once wished to be free of. 

Hoping to be able to ignore his overwhelming thoughts, Flint turned his head to look at the sleeping figure on the bed beside him. Silver was laying on his back, his curls a tangled mess over his face, one hand tucked under the pillow. His chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm under the thin blanket. At first, it had been a nightmare just to have the man be so close; even when they had shared Flint’s cabin, Silver had slept next to the window, on the opposite side of the room. Now he was close enough to touch, close enough for his breath to feel cool against Flint’s skin. The sight of him couldn’t have been further from the shadow of the nightmare; his face was lit by the pale light of the early morning, streaming through the window, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, between his eyebrows, smoothed in sleep, creating an illusion of someone happy, someone content with their life. There was no reason to believe he wasn’t comfortable; his smiles came easy and he seemed to have regained some of the annoying wit he had been equipped with when Flint had first met him. It had been evident when, true to himself, Silver had made the whole room ordeal a joke after Flint had helped him into the master bedroom, Charles disappearing through the next door, just behind the wall. Silver had sat on the large bed and wiggled his right leg like a small, excited boy, grinning at Flint as he tried his best to ignore his new roommate. Naturally, it had been impossible.

“Maybe it’s best I sleep elsewhere,” Flint had said grumpily, and Silver had made a protesting sound from inside his shirt, in the process of taking it off and putting on display everything Flint had despaired over already earlier that same day. When his head had appeared again, his face framed by a cascade of loose, soft curls, he had looked very annoyed. 

“I can’t drive you away from your own bed.” He had said slowly. “So if you truly cannot handle me being here, then I’m the one who should be going.” He had made a move to get up, and Flint had thrown the blanket at him, stopping his intentions. 

“I can handle it.” He had lied. “Just promise me you’ll stay on your side of the bed.” 

“I’m known for my nightly habits, Flint. You might just wake up with me wrapped all over you, so please, don’t take it to heart if it happens. I’ll try my best but I won’t promise a thing.” Silver had laughed, oblivious to the dread spreading through Flint as he watched the other man snuggle into the pillow and find a comfortable position. It hadn’t taken Silver long to fall asleep, which had helped in climbing into the bed beside him and settling down, making sure there was some distance between them under the covers. Yet true to his threat, Silver had moved almost frantically; his arm had slapped Flint so hard his eyes had watered, and his freezing toes had soon enough found Flint’s calves, nearly sending him running out of the room. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept in the same bed with someone, especially someone so lively. Thomas had talked in his sleep, but otherwise stayed still. Miranda hadn’t moved an inch from where she had settled down, waking up in the same position the following day. But Silver thrashed and turned, punching and kicking, before finally, after what must’ve been hours, he settled onto his back and calmed down. By then Flint had been immune, dancing on the edge of falling asleep as well, and in the end the other man’s steady huffs of breath had toppled him over, the dark room slowly fading away. 

He hadn’t expected a nightmare, and looking at Silver’s prone form now he realised the man’s presence so close must’ve been the cause. It was infuriating, how the other was capable of affecting him even in dreams. There was no way he could doze off anymore, so instead he pushed himself up, slowly and carefully so as not to accidentally interrupt Silver’s sleep - although he doubted anything could. He grabbed his shirt from where he had discarded it, feeling beyond exhausted and slightly annoyed, leaving the bedroom and heading towards the kitchen in the hopes some rum might help him feel more alive. He contemplated waking up Charles and taking over the guest room - it was his house - but decided against it, accepting the fact he would probably have to take a nap during the day, when the bedrooms would be unoccupied. 

He was surprised to find Billy awake at the table, massaging his neck and looking worse for wear than Flint felt. 

“Morning.” Billy said slowly, blinking at the sight of Flint, barefoot and wearing a rumpled shirt, the sleeves slightly too long when not rolled up to his elbows. “I feel hungover.”

“You shouldn’t sleep sitting up,” Flint said, making his way to the cupboard and pulling out the rum. He felt groggy, and the dimness of the room did nothing to help: the fire had died out, the embers only providing a soft, golden halo in the immediate vicinity of the fireplace, and even that was mostly blocked by Billy. He wondered what time it was, and whether it would be a good idea to just drink from the bottle instead of bothering with a glass. 

“A bit early for that, don’t you think?” Billy asked from the table, and Flint halted, glancing at the man over his shoulder. 

“After more or less getting beat up by Silver in the bed, I’d say I deserve it.” He retorted back, but decided to grab the glass, bringing it to the table with him. Billy’s eyebrows had shot up, and Flint realised that the man had not been awake when rooms had been divided. “Charles took the guest room.” He offered for an explanation. It didn’t really give a good reason as to why he and Silver had had to share, but he was too tired to care. 

“I see.” Billy said. He watched as Flint poured the rum, and when Flint pushed the bottle over the table he said nothing, instead filling his own glass and downing the drink quickly, grimacing at his protesting neck. 

For a while they sat in comfortable silence, the sun slowly appearing in the horizon, the world outside the windows coming to life. The storm had passed sometime during the night, and the air was fresh, the yard filled with shallow puddles of murky water. A small, grey cat was making its way across the grass and towards the vegetable garden, raising its paws higher than necessary to try and avoid getting too wet. Flint followed it with his eyes, until it disappeared underneath the weeds. The sky was cloudless and bright, a promise of a hot day. 

“Alright,” Billy said finally, stumbling a little as he got up from his seat. “I’d better return to the beach. The men will want to know if I’m alive or if they have to vote for yet another captain. And I think it might be for the best I steer the people after Vane’s head into some other direction.” He cracked his knuckles, making his way to the door. 

“No breakfast?” Flint asked with a yawn, wanting to get up as well but finding the thought of it too much to handle; he shared Billy’s feeling of being hungover. It would probably be a good idea to sleep in a hammock the following night, since he could set it somewhere far from Silver’s wandering limbs and thus, hopefully, sleep for more than a couple of hours. Previously, he would’ve been able to simply remain in bed for as long as he liked if he felt tired, but the thought of laying there, awake, while Silver slept soundly so close to him, was unnerving. 

“No, thanks, it’s too early to be hungry.” Billy pulled the door open, squinting against the light. “I’ll get something at the inn.” He raised a hand in a lazy salute, nearly hitting his head against the doorframe on his way out. Flint was able to hear a faint ‘fucking hell’ before the door closed softly behind the man, and then Billy’s heavy steps on the porch and grass; the sound of a horse neighing, and after a short while, silence. 

The absence of sounds was a blessing for the headache Flint hadn’t quite realised he had, but the lack of noise did not last for long. As he stared at the dark liquid in his glass, trying to decide whether drinking it would make him feel worse or better, there was a heavy thunk from somewhere deeper in the house, accompanied by a surprised yelp, and finally a very loud, colourful litany of curses and oaths. Knowing instinctively what had happened Flint got up and returned to the master bedroom, finding Silver exactly where he had expected to see him: on the floor, badly tangled in the sheets and looking like he wasn’t quite awake enough yet to untangle himself. 

Upon hearing the door creak open Silver looked up, suddenly alert, his eyes running over Flint. His hand was still gripping the mattress as if it could prevent him from falling any further, and there were red marks on his left cheek where it had been pressed against the pillow. A slow smile spread across his face, and he clumsily pushed himself up into a sitting position. 

“You look like shit,” he said drowsily, and Flint quirked an eyebrow, shooting a pointed look at the other man’s appearance. Silver noticed, and glanced down at himself, raising a hand to push stray curls off his face. 

“Sometimes I still forget that jumping out of the bed in the morning is not something I do anymore.” He offered, blinking. 

“Did you sleep well?” Flint asked, striding to the other man and lifting him up with ease. He couldn’t bother feeling awkward at the contact; the nightmare was still clinging to him, and he was determined to see evidence that it wasn’t true; that Silver was still Silver. 

“Like a baby. Although you did not.” Silver said, and when Flint met his eyes he was able to detect a hint of worry in the blue depths. “You look like you could sleep standing. If it’s my fault, if I kept you awake or did something that wasn’t-“

“Not your fault,” Flint interrupted, raising a hand to rub his aching eyes. “Yes, you moved around like a fish on dry land, but it was hardly enough to keep me from sleeping. No, I had a… I had a nightmare.” He wished Silver wouldn’t ask about it - not because he didn’t want to tell, but because he feared he would. And he wasn’t ready to share his fears, knowing that what he felt, when put to words, would become that much more plain and harder to ignore. Thankfully it seemed like the other man did not want to go into it, at least not yet, simply nodding sympathetically. 

“If you want to stay here,” Silver said, gesturing towards the bed, “I can make sure Charles doesn’t bother you when he gets up. I’m sure I can entertain myself if you want to get some proper sleep.” He smiled, and it was genuine, bright, the kind of smile one had to answer to, and Flint did, grinning while he shook his head. 

“I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” Silver seemed disbelieving, but didn’t press it. “I’ll make you some breakfast though. You can insist you’re not tired when you look half dead, but you cannot pretend you’re not hungry. And it’s wise to eat something before drinking.” 

Flint blinked, the question evident in his eyes, and Silver raised an eyebrow.

“You smell like rum, not like roses. Which I like, by the way. I like roses.” he huffed out a laugh, and reached for the shirt he had draped over the headboard of the bed. He pulled it on, letting it hang loose below the waistband of his trousers much like Flint’s was, but he rolled up his sleeves. His hand on Flint’s shoulder was surprising, but only for the fleeting second before Flint realised Silver needed help to get to the kitchen. 

The other man was warm, even through the shirt, and they snickered quietly as they tried to get past the guest room as silently as possible, barefoot and with Silver’s hair tickling the skin of Flint’s hand. From behind the closed door they could hear Charles mumbling incoherently in his sleep, something that sounded a lot like ‘porcelain teacups’, and Flint nearly jumped out of his skin when Silver buried his face against his chest, attempting to muffle his laughter. The other man’s breath was hot through the thin fabric, his arms around Flint tightening as he sought for balance, and it was overwhelming. Flint couldn’t remember the last time someone had been so close to him, so trusting of him, and he felt off balance himself; it was a miracle he managed to manoeuvre the both of them to the kitchen. 

“You crushed him with that teacup,” Silver breathed when he detached himself from Flint, leaning against the counter. His eyes glimmered with unbridled joy as he looked at Flint proudly. “The hard childhood, Blackbeard, Eleanor, the war against the English - all those things worked to make him stronger, invincible to some, and you brought him down by serving him rum from a porcelain teacup.” He thumbed away a tear from the corner of his eye. 

“He asked for it.” Flint said coolly, but Silver’s unguarded smiles made him feel happy. “And I truly was out of glasses.” 

Silver hummed, sniffling. “Naturally.” Then he cleared his throat, cracking his knuckles. “Alright, now, breakfast. Eggs?” he looked at Flint questioningly, and Flint nodded. 

“There’s a chicken coop behind the house. I’m not overly fond of the damn birds and I believe the feeling is mutual, but I keep them around, for eggs mostly. How many do you need?”

“I have a gut feeling that tells me Charles eats as much as he weighs, so bring all you can find. I’ll come up with something to serve with them.” Silver grinned as he brushed his hair behind his ears, and Flint offered him a crooked smile, crossing the room to the front door and stepping out into the sunlight. It was already hot, yet the colours seemed oddly bleached after the heavy rain. He descended the steps and sloshed straight into a puddle of mud; he had forgotten he was still barefoot. Fighting the urge to curse out loud he continued his way around the house, the damage having already been done, carefully avoiding all the wet patches, the sand warm and rough beneath his feet. He was glad to notice that most of the chickens were out and about already - he had been the victim of their wrath once, and much preferred it when they were out of the way. 

There was a small basket perched at the side of the coop, and he picked it up, quickly gathering every single egg he was able to find, feeling like the chickens knew what he was doing. It was ridiculous, to be unnerved by birds, but he was also certain Miranda had purchased the most vicious ones the world had had to offer, deliberately making Flint the honorary egg-fetcher whenever he had been around. Although perhaps their wrath was deserved; he didn’t know if the birds knew their eggs were never going to hatch, and thought he was stealing their babies for his omelette. However it was, he was happy to return back into the house unscathed, where Silver had lit the fire, the pan ready at his side. 

Silver glanced at the muddy footprints Flint left behind, crossing his arms. 

“You didn’t bother with shoes?” he asked. Flint merely glared at him, setting the basket on the counter, and Silver shrugged. 

“I’m not judging, I also liked going outside barefoot,” he turned away, and Flint could just hear him add under his breath: “When I was a little boy.” He was able to see the smile on the man’s face and decided to let it go, instead running a hand over his head, the feeling of the short, coarse hair bringing up the absent thought of whether or not he ought to grow his hair back. He briefly thought of asking Silver - he would surely have an opinion - but decided it didn’t really matter. 

With practiced movements Silver broke the eggs over the pan, adding them into something he had already made up while Flint had been outside; it smelled delicious as it cooked, but Flint had no idea what it was. He guessed he would find out eventually, and instead of asking simply leaned against the counter, sleepy and comforted by the sounds around him. His head lolled down and he fought to keep his eyes open, but against his will they slipped closed, and the darkness was pleasantly warm, with soft, golden edges. At the background, Silver was humming, a melody Flint didn’t believe he had heard before. He made a mental note to ask the other about it later.

As he dozed, balancing between staying upright and falling down onto his face, the sun warm at his back, the door was opened once again, and he jolted, gripping the counter to keep himself standing, his head snapping nearly painfully to the side as he turned to blink at the newcomers. Silver hadn’t turned, merely looking over his shoulder, already unsurprised by the seemingly steady flow of uninvited people in the house. 

At the door, Anne Bonny looked mildly taken aback at the sight of the two of them, her fiery hair ablaze where the gold of the sun met with red, her pale blue eyes moving from Flint’s rugged appearance to Silver cooking eggs at the fire. She offered a small nod at Flint’s raised eyebrows, and as he had expected, it didn’t take long for Jack to enter after her, politely closing the door behind him. He was looking at Anne, but followed her gaze when she didn’t look back, his eyes widening ever so slightly. 

“Good morning,” he said amiably, gathering his wits impressively fast, taking a step to stand slightly in front of Anne. He seemed cautious, hovering, but when Flint said nothing and made no move, he glanced at Anne again, gesturing towards the kitchen.

“I told you I smelled breakfast.” 

Flint groaned, momentarily closing his eyes, wondering why everything happened to him, and not to someone else, someone perhaps better suited for hosting people. When he shot a look at Silver he received a mere shrug and a slightly defeated smile. 

“Maybe it’s best you go and see if there are any eggs you might’ve missed.” 

Flint frowned, snatching the basket from the counter and walking over to Jack, holding it out to the man.

“If you want breakfast, the coop is behind the house.” He said simply, and Jack took the basket from him, holding it at an arm’s length like it was a bomb, set to explode at any second. He nodded hastily at Flint’s retreating back. 

“Seems only fair,” he said. “Come on Anne, let’s go egg hunting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO SO SORRY this is so late ugh T . T I have some new work to do that I'm excited for and it takes up most of my days, but aahhhh it isn't really an excuse. Sorry!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flint has a hard time and comes to a very important realisation. Silver is not fine with not having both of his legs, but he will be alright. Sometimes there are clouds in paradise, but once these two get it together it'll be all sunshine again!

The sky was pale blue and cloudless, fresh and washed clean by the previous day’s storm. The drying grass spread its earthy scent across the yard, littered with birds looking for prey; they ruffled their plain feathers at each other and sent tiny droplets of water like shards of diamonds flying around. The flowers at the corner of the house were still drooping; their petals were heavy and soaked, the water resembling tears where it gathered. The air had yet to turn unbearably hot, but the lack of wind was a promise of heat - the sand would burn beneath bare feet, and shadows would offer no relief. 

Flint leaned against the doorframe, his eyes closed, enjoying the soft warmth of the sun. The house was cool and shadowed behind him, nearly silent but for the occasional clink of teacup against saucer. Flint could feel the other man’s eyes on him, but the feeling wasn’t unwelcome, and he didn’t turn to question it. He knew exactly where Silver was; sitting at the table, with what was left of his leg raised up and propped by a soft pillow. Flint had given him the book he had been reading before, and Silver had seemed content enough with it. But the sound of pages turning had stopped abruptly some time ago, and now it was as if Silver was waiting - sensing that there was something they both needed to say, yet neither wanted to be the first. 

Flint took a deep breath, opening his eyes. A small distance away Jack was running towards the gate with an angry chicken at his heels. 

“I’ll have to ride to Nassau today.”

A soft thud; a book landing on the table. He could see in his mind how Silver’s slim fingers were tracing the title, written in gold on the soft leather binding. 

“I’m guessing we’ll need plenty of food if Anne and Jack are staying.” Silver said slowly, his tone light. 

“They will stay.” Flint narrowed his eyes as Jack ran back towards the coop, now with two chickens giving chase. Anne was nowhere to be seen, but it was evident she was faring better than her friend. “I don’t believe we would be able to make them leave, not as long as Charles is here.” 

“I suppose not.” Silver breathed out, drumming the edge of the table in a steady rhythm. Flint knew it annoyed the other one, not being able to stand up and walk to him, to even suggest coming along to Nassau; he knew how fond Silver was of the men of Walrus, and how much he must’ve wanted to see them. But Flint only had one horse and no carriage, even if he did wish he could take Silver with him, instead of leaving him into the house with the Ranger crew. “Will you return today?” 

“No. I will go see Billy, maybe Max, ask them a little about the situation concerning our guests. It’s safer than for one of them to travel here with the news. I’ll also find someone who could take a look at the boot.” Flint glanced at the peg leg, propped against the wall at the far end of the porch. It looked strange without anyone attached to it - not like something to be used as a leg at all. “It has suffered, and it’s a miracle everything’s still intact. It’ll be safer to have the buckles renewed.” 

Silver let out a short laugh, soft and bitter. “You don’t need to do that. I can do it myself once I get to wear it again.”

“Yet it is significantly easier for me to do it today.” Flint turned around, stepping back into the house. Silver was looking at him, a storm brewing beneath the clear blue of his eyes. Flint knew it wasn’t the thought of Flint helping him that angered him, but more likely the thought of being left in the house, forced to ask Vane or the others for their aid in nearly everything. But it was one of two bad options; either be helped or push the healing of the wound even further forward by wearing the boot. And Flint wasn’t going to let Silver have his way, not in this matter, not when he wouldn’t be there if anything happened. His trust with Vane was fragile - it was there but only barely, and he didn’t know Jack or Anne well enough to form an opinion. He was sure that Silver could fend for himself, but he also couldn’t help seeing the man as terribly vulnerable. He lacked the ability to move swiftly, to fight properly without a support. And while Flint doubted there would be a fight between the four, it was never wise to think no outer threat could find them. The whole of Nassau was after Charles Vane, and if they were enraged enough there was no saying they wouldn’t come inland to look for him. 

“Fine.” Silver said, his hand squeezed into a fist beside the closed book. There was defeat in his tone, mixed with frustration. Flint knew that Silver was aware arguing would not make Flint budge an inch, but would simply take energy and time; he had learned it the hard way.

There were steps on the porch, and Anne strode into the room, Jack close behind her. She was unscathed as one would expect, carrying the basket, but Jack seemed to have a few scratches he hadn’t sported earlier, and there were feathers stuck to his pants and boots. He was panting, his face red, but looked triumphant nonetheless, wiping his forehead into his sleeve and nodding at the others, unaware of the tension in the room. 

“That was quite an ordeal.” He announced airily, pulling a prickly straw from his hair and frowning at it. “I hadn’t imagined chickens could be that vicious.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Anne said, glaring at him from beneath the brim of her hat. “A grown man afraid of some fucking birds?”

“Please Anne, don’t scold me just yet, wait for after breakfast. Besides, I’d say we won. We got the eggs, and that should be more important here than the fact I had a few.. unfortunate encounters.” The words came out slow, as if Jack was picking them carefully, not quite aware of how they would sound. 

Anne rolled her eyes, gently setting the basket on the table. “You mean I got them, while you were busy running around, scared like a little kid. There was nothing unfortunate about it, you were just acting like an idiot.” She crossed her arms over her chest, tilting her head, so that her other eye was swallowed by shadows. Flint wasn’t able to decipher whether or not she sounded amused or truly annoyed - although Jack seemed ready to defend his honour - and decided to end what seemed to be growing into a tedious argument he wasn’t willing to witness.

“I’m going to Nassau today,” he said gruffly, cutting short whatever it was Jack had opened his mouth to say. “To get food and other necessary items for having unexpected visitors.” he glanced at Anne, who was staring back at him, a small frown on her face. “I’ll ask about your situation as well, but I won’t be back before tomorrow, and it should go without saying that you need to stay here. No one can see you. I don’t want your problems arriving at my door and I sure as hell won’t have any part in whatever stupid shit you pulled back in Nassau.” He crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall. “Now, is there something you need that I can bring here?” 

Jack blinked, turning slightly to look at Anne. “Thank you kindly, but we have what we own with us. It must be quite inconvenient to have us all here, and I can assure you this was not the first place we thought of. But as all our lucks would have it, we ended up here nonetheless.” He walked to the table and pulled a chair, leaving a trail of pure white feathers behind him. “And you can trust us in at least the fact that we would not intentionally drag our problems all the way here. We are quite content without them. We’ll stay put while you’re away.”

Anne nodded. 

“It seems you’re good to go, then.” Silver said, leaning back on his seat. His tone was colder than what it had been on any of the days he had spent at the house, but masked enough that the others couldn’t detect it. Flint hated it, but there was nothing he could’ve said or done to change it. Perhaps it would’ve been different had it just been the two of them; he was not good at letting people he cared about know that whatever he did, he did for them. He would’ve struggled with explaining that to Silver in a room with no audience in it, and trying became impossible with both Rackham and Bonny so close. However he was aware that Silver was annoyed with himself, more than with anyone else - the sense of being an invalid only heightened in the company of those he much rather would seem whole with. Silver was proud, and had tormented himself about coming off weak in front of his own men, even when they had sworn to protect him, even when they had reassured him that there was nothing weak about him. He had inflicted considerable damage upon himself, and his health, to seem like the man he had been; able to care for himself and do what any man with two legs could. It must’ve been even worse to pretend in front of people that did not share anything with him. It was painful to think how scared Silver must’ve been at the moment; knowing he’d need help with going into the kitchen, going outside, going to bed. He’d need someone for all of it, because the house had nothing to use as a crutch, nothing to help him move on his own. 

Flint had never wished for being able to stay somewhere as much as he did now.

“I will be back tomorrow.” It wasn’t so much to Silver he said it than to himself. He did not want to go. He did not want anyone else helping Silver move about, and he didn’t want to leave Silver sitting there, looking for all the world like a man being crushed by his own helplessness. But he could not send anyone else, either. The crew of the Ranger could not be seen in Nassau; he wouldn’t risk one of them luring angry pirates into Miranda’s house. It left only him. 

Silver hummed, the corner of his mouth rising in a faint smile. For a moment they stayed silent, Anne looking at the eggs like she was unsure what to do with them next, and Jack picking at the faded, ripped lace that peeked from beneath his sleeve. 

“Where is Charles?” He asked suddenly, his fingers stopping their restless movement, freezing in the middle of pulling at a loose string. He sounded like he had come to realise that something vital was amiss. 

“Sleeping, I suppose.” Silver said amiably, recovering his usual brightness with practiced ease. “I’m under the impression his journey here through that storm yesterday was tiring. And I don’t doubt it.” He reached for his book and opened it from where he had left it. “The guest room, to the left.”

Both Anne and Jack moved, making their way down the corridor, accompanied by the now sparse trail of feathers that danced around in the wake of their steps. Quite soon Flint could hear the door to the guest room open with a creak, and after a short while a loud thump; Charles shouting something incoherent and Jack yelping.

Silver smiled at the book, and Flint felt at loss. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to do something now; should he simply leave? He cursed himself and the fact he could be so pathetic. The emotional turmoil inside his head was akin to the one he had experienced during his war against the English, yet even then he had known how to channel it, how to make it work and use it to become stronger. He had been the most feared pirate in the world then, and while he had hated it, he had also built it to reign in the frustration and anger that had threatened to explode over everything. Yet now, he found himself unable to do the same. What he felt was not anger in the least, yet shouldn’t he be able to do the same with whatever he had now, than with what he had had then? The fact that he could become so unhinged simply because Silver was present, and there, was something he had not thought possible. Not to him, and not after everything. He wondered if it was some sort of a trick someone was playing at him; to make him love someone again, once more, just to see what he would do once the world would shatter from beneath him yet again. The thought was unbearable, and it was ridiculous, laughing at him in the soft silence of the room. He wanted it to stop. 

“I have to go now.” He said abruptly, straightening himself, and Silver looked up, the faintest crease between his eyebrows - as if hearing the growing distress in Flint's voice. “Try to behave yourself meanwhile.”

Silver blinked. “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, don’t try to talk them into getting you to Nassau somehow." Flint was grasping at threads, but as the words formed he realized they might as well be true. "And don’t tell me you weren’t thinking about it; I know you well enough to be sure you would’ve tried.”

Silver was silent for a moment, staring at him, before breaking into a wide grin;  
relief washed over Flint like a wave. 

“I had thought of trying. But I wouldn’t have done it, or they wouldn’t have. People are looking for them, and I doubt they’d risk themselves for my sake. But I want you to promise me that when I have that blasted boot back on, I’ll get to go. It beats me how you’ve managed, being holed up in here for all this time, but I’m already getting restless and it’s been only what? Two days?” He shook his head, shifting on the chair. “This would all be easier if I just could…move. But now all I can do is sit on my ass and rely on someone else’s good will. A year ago this would’ve been a nightmare. And even now, it’s only because of-“ he slowed down, halted, staring at Flint. His words reminded Flint of the ones Miranda had said to him once; how staying in that house from one day to another was not living. Merely existing. 

“Because of what?” he asked quietly, his heart beating so loud and so strong he was sure Silver could see it. 

“...I don’t think you’re ready for that answer just yet,” Silver said slowly, his tone wondering. His expression was odd, and Flint was sure he knew, at least vaguely, what the answer would’ve been. And no, he wasn’t ready for it.  
He felt like he couldn’t breathe properly under Silver’s concerned gaze, like the walls of the room were coming down towards him. He had to leave, and he had to think. It was as he had feared, two days ago, when Silver had appeared as if summoned from the darker parts of his mind. He had not been sure whether their arrangement would be a good idea, whether Silver had been one of the things he had escaped from when leaving his crew to come live in Miranda’s old house. Because he was afraid, and because he wasn’t entirely sure what he was afraid of. 

Without a word Flint turned around and walked out, nearly slamming the door shut behind him. He grabbed his saddle from where it perched atop a rack, just behind the door and safe from any weather, and barely remembered to grab the peg leg as well. His horse was waiting for him at the makeshift stable he had built once, where Miranda had kept her gardening tools while he had been away and the shack had been unoccupied. They were still there, against the far wall, and it hurt to look at them. 

He had been worried, terrified, of corrupting Silver when with him at sea, and now it seemed he had done the same but only differently; he had caged Silver in the house, much like he had once caged Miranda, by taking his means of getting around away from him. It had never been intentional, and he had done everything simply to protect the people he cared for. And both Miranda and Silver were, in some aspects, very similar. They were free and proud, and unapologetic, and for them staying put was the same as being imprisoned. And the only way Flint could think of to keep them safe was far from anyone who might wish to hurt them. He had taken Miranda with him once, because she had not deserved the loneliness and despair of being stuck in the house, and she had been killed, murdered in front of him like an animal. He knew now it hadn’t been his fault, and that there had been very little he could’ve done differently - it had all started a lot further back than Nassau, when Flint had not yet been born; when James McGraw had found Miranda Hamilton alone and distraught from her and Thomas’ house. His only thought after escaping London had been to keep her safe, to hide her away and to wage his own war at England. He had brought her here, built something that had, on occasion, resembled a home. He had dragged her along, believing it had been their only option. 

But Silver had come to him, out of his own volition. He had decided to seek Flint out, and he had said he was tired of life at sea. Tired of the aching and of the fighting, the battles with merchants that now seemed so dull and meaningless after the war to keep the island to themselves. He had chosen. He had come. Flint hadn’t taken him along when he first had left. He hadn’t wanted to. Not then. 

The horse neighed, annoyed, and Flint was returned to reality - it felt like having his head pulled out from a bucketful of freezing cold water.

He frowned, blinking furiously, and tied the boot to the back of the saddle, making sure it was there securely before climbing up. The horse seemed as eager as him to leave, even if it wasn’t going to be for long. But the feeling of being alone, of being able to think in peace, felt relieving. Dancing around his former quartermaster while living in the same house had never been meant to last very long, and Flint knew what it was he had to do. He just didn’t know how to approach it. He felt he was at the same, uncertain place filled with doubt where he had been with Thomas: when he hadn’t known how to take the next step, or if he even should. But Thomas had not been afraid of any of it, whereas Silver seemed to know too much about Flint’s past to move forward when there was the slightest uncertainty that something only recently fixed would break again. 

Flint urged the horse to a gallop once they passed the gate, taking a deep breath of the dry air. The realisation that what he felt for Silver was not going to change, and would not stay at the back of his mind where he had willed it to stay for so long, made everything much simpler. Because he wasn’t afraid of the feeling itself, had never been and would never be. It was the consequences. And what were the consequences of being in love with John Silver?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have no excuse for taking a YEAR to update this... At first I had the exams and moving back to my home country, but after that.. I think I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue the story. I lost inspiration and spent so much time just staring at a sentence or a blank screen. i've had so many drafts for this chapter and still I'm not perfectly happy with it. But this chapter was always supposed to be a filler (the final chapter before Flint will TRULY acknowledge his feelings and just lets go). I know i must've disappointed some people who were looking forward to updates and I don't even know if any of you are still reading or in the fandom!! But if you are, and if you see this, then I'm so, so sorry for making you wait so long!!  
> I have outlines for future chapters now, I thought it might be smarter and help me write them faster! I have small lists of ideas for each chapter as well. :) And I promise, there will not be any more breaks. If something really happens that will prevent me from continuing, then I will tell you so immediately and give someone else the reigns.  
> I'm sorry!!

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued ;)) Seriously I love domestic!Flint so much. D: I hope that this story does all the headcanons justice!!


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